


falling, catching

by tsuneni



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Bottom Louis, First Time, Fluff, M/M, Poet harry, Social Anxiety, Strangers to Lovers, Student Harry, Student Louis, some awkward smut, what else can i say?? i'm so bad at tagging
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-03
Updated: 2017-11-03
Packaged: 2019-01-25 19:27:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 23,777
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12539448
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tsuneni/pseuds/tsuneni
Summary: Harry’s jotting down some more notes when he feels a thud on his right shoulder. He doesn’t flinch,thank God, because when he turns his head to the right his suspicions are confirmed. The boy has fallen asleep on Harry’s shoulder.When Harry lets out the breath he had been holding, the sleeping boy pushes his nose further into the burgundy fabric of Harry’s sweater, and wraps his arm around Harry’s waist.This boy is going to be the death of him.-Or; the one where Harry likes poems, soft sweaters, old novels, and that one boy in his Romantic Poetry course that keeps falling asleep during lectures.





	falling, catching

**Author's Note:**

> This is not beta'd (although I reread and edited it at least five times so typo-wise it should be okay... I hope.)
> 
> I haven't written fiction in ages and I'm honest to god shitting myself because I'm so nervous about finally posting this, especially knowing that it is far (very very far) from perfect. But I guess everyone has to start somewhere, and practice makes perfect. The title is inspired by Agnes Obel because I've loved her for ages; her music keep me calm when things are hard. I rediscovered her first album while writing this fic and this particular song title fits the general idea behind the story, I think.
> 
>  **Warning** for Harry dealing with anxiety which results into him having some really bad thoughts.

Harry is trying desperately, _desperately_ , to focus on the lecture, but he cannot stop watching the wobbling head in front of him. The boy is quite obviously teetering on the edge of falling asleep. Every single time when his head is about to hit the desk, it shoots up again. It should be annoying, because Harry, for once, is genuinely trying to focus on the lecture, but the boy’s losing battle against falling asleep is actually kind of cute.

Harry knows who the boy is, of course. Walking into the lecture theatre on the first day of the new semester, he expected to see only familiar faces because there really aren’t that many people that voluntarily take a course on Romantic poetry. If it had been up to him, he wouldn’t have taken the course either. The professor is known for giving drawn-out lectures with a voice so monotonous that you would almost believe he is doing it on purpose. But Harry’s fate has not been merciful, and the course is mandatory for him and the other few students who had chosen the American Lit course last year.

For the first time in ages, he hadn’t been nervous when he walked into a lecture hall, because he had expected to see only the faces of his friends and acquaintances. So after greeting Sarah and Clare, waving to Fiona, glancing briefly at Zayn (who he doesn’t really talk to anymore) and giving Nick a kiss on his cheek, he had been genuinely surprised when he saw the unknown face in the second row.

Brown hair. Tousled, matching his soft stubble. An unusually delicate face, with eyes cast downwards and eyelashes (long, _long_ eyelashes) fanning out over his sharp cheekbones. One dainty wrist supporting his chin, another dainty wrist showing off elegant fingers that were tapping a non-distinctive rhythm on the pages of his book. (A hefty novel, Harry could see, with a font size that looks too small to even be real. It’s a book that cannot possibly be one of the poetry volumes on their reading list, which is interesting to say the least. Who reads for pleasure when the reading list is five pages long?)

Thankfully for Harry, Nick was there next to him. With a knowing smile on his face and a gentle hand on his wrist, he saved Harry from doing something embarrassing like walking up to the boy and flirtatiously asking what he’s reading. He’s done that before, and the girl in question had enthusiastically proclaimed that she was reading 50 Shades of Grey because she wanted to surprise her boyfriend. Nick had laughed. Harry had been horrified.

Thus, the first time he sees the boy, he merely stares and plops down on the chair next to Nick.

He’s not surprised when during that first lecture he finds his eyes drifting away from the lecturer and towards the boy. Harry knows himself: he knows how quick his crushes on people appear and disappear. He has a crush on “basically everyone” (or so Nick had said), from people in the street who wear that specific type of flimsy scarf that he likes, to the people on the tube who stare out of the window with that special kind of melancholy look in their eyes. Harry’s used to it by now — his heart suddenly beating rapidly at the sight of a stranger whose eyes he meets for a second, after which they disappear from his life forever. Harry just tries to not ogle his crushes too obviously, and moves on with his life as soon as they disappear from his view.

The thing is, even after a full month of seeing him in lectures, the cute boy doesn’t stop being, well, _cute._

He doesn’t understand why the boy keeps making him nervous. _What is so special about him?_ , he asks himself one morning when he finds himself writing a poem about sharp cheekbones and soft stubble. _I should be over him by now_ , he thinks one night when he’s having his third wank of the week to the thought of having one of those dainty hands wrapped around him. But Harry isn’t over him. His poor heart keeps aching, no matter how many times he sees that angelic face.

It didn’t take long for him to realise that the boy always chooses the same seat: second row, somewhat to the left, bag on the chair to his right. On the days that neither Nick nor Fiona attend the lecture (which are most days), he strategically sits down one row behind him, so he can stare at the boy’s soft hair and pretty profile without much ado.

And so here he is, one month into the new semester, a volume of Keats in front of him, staring at his sleepy crush.

He has half a mind to nudge the boy awake, to make sure that he doesn’t start snoring in the middle of Keats’ ‘ _a thing of beauty is a joy forever_ ’. That particular line of poetry seems more appropriate than it should be, especially when the boy’s eyelashes flutter prettily. Slowly but gradually, his eyes start drifting closed again.

 _Please stay awake_ , Harry prays in a moment of panic, because he is in no way ready to do something awkward like waking up a stranger in the middle of a lecture. He wants this boy to _like_ him, he thinks nervously. He doesn’t want him to think that he’s a creep, that Harry has been _watching_ him, even though that is exactly what he has been doing.

The boy’s head starts moving downwards — he lets out a soft breath when his head finally touches the table.

He doesn’t move.

He has, quite clearly, fallen asleep.

He doesn’t snore. _Thank God_ , Harry thinks, because that would have been truly awkward. The lecture hall is empty enough that nobody seems to take notice, and the lecturer is so old that Harry doesn’t think he would notice if there weren’t any students present at all. Small blessings.

He’s more than ready to lean back in his chair and let the boy sleep. He looks so peaceful, a little bit angelic, and Harry guesses that he really must be tired if he’s falling asleep like this. But when he throws a last glance towards where the boy’s nose is pressed against his wrist, Harry’s heart skips a beat, and he knows he needs to wake the boy up _asap._ For some godawful reason, the boy uses a bloody _fountain pen_ to take notes (why? _why?_ everyone loves a good ballpoint) and it’s steadily leaking ink onto the boy’s volume of _Endymion_. Fuck.

Maybe he could nudge the boy awake with his foot? His legs are long enough to reach him and it wouldn’t be noticeable to any of the other students. But, personally, he’s not sure if he would appreciate being nudged awake by a stranger’s dirty shoe, so he doesn’t think the boy will like it either. The only other option is to wake the boy with a tap to his shoulder, which will be a hard mission to execute properly without making the other students stare at him. His heart starts beating faster at the thought of being looked at, being _laughed_ at. He bites his lip.

Whatever. He will go to great lengths to save the cute boy’s novel.

He scoots to the left as unobtrusively as he can and focuses on leaning over his desk without falling over. It’s harder than it seems, because the hard edge of the table digs into his ribs and the chair is less steady than it looks.

The boy is wearing a large black hoodie, which is soft to his touch. He closes his eyes briefly, thinking _what the fuck am I doing_ and willing away the tremble in his fingers. It doesn’t help. He always trembles when he’s scared; he hasn’t found a way to make the fear go away. When he opens his eyes again he leans the last bit forward and tries to poke the boy awake with barely the tip of his finger. Nudge number three is successful. The small body startles slightly. He doesn’t move for a second and Harry thinks he has to nudge again when suddenly the boy’s eyes open and he quietly turns around in his chair. When their eyes meet, Harry almost chokes on his breath.

Yeah, _fuck_. He has eyes that are bluer than the moon.

He coughs softly and tries to regain focus, but it’s hard when the boy’s face is right there in front of him, all gentle eyes (gentle _blue_ eyes), slow blinking, fanning those _beautiful stunning amazing_ eyelashes over his cheeks, smiling slightly, using one small hand to fix his fringe delicately.

He’s oh so very beautiful, and Harry might be losing his mind a little.

“Hey,” he whispers, eventually. It’s a bit too loud, so he leans further over the desk. “You were asleep so I thought I’d better wake you up, because your pen was leaking onto your book? And I didn’t want you to get in trouble or something, because the prof can be pretty harsh and—”

He trails off. The boy’s got a dazed expression on his face, probably a combination of sleepiness and general confusion at Harry’s stupid stupid _stupid_ rambling. “Sorry,” he adds, and tries to find a way to hide that he’s blushing.

It gets worse when, instead of responding, the boy’s eyes flicker to somewhere behind Harry. When he bites his lip to hide a grin, Harry looks over his shoulder to see that… literally everyone is looking at him.

He squeaks. This is, like, his worst nightmare — his crush thinking that he’s a _creep_ , all the students thinking that he’s a _weirdo_. He feels his heart sinking in his chest. He kind of wishes Nick were here after all, just to have someone to share his embarrassment with.

“Um, I dropped my pen. Sorry,” he mumbles eventually, and he casts his eyes downwards.

Thankfully, _miraculously_ , none of the students seem to question his awful excuse, or nobody cares, both of which Harry finds absolutely fine. He hides his head in his hands and groans.

When he hears a soft chuckle he looks up to find the boy smiling at him. “Thanks for waking me,” he whispers, and turns around again.

Harry is so, so, _so_ fucked.

 

. . .

 

A week passes without any other incidents.

Harry stares at the boy. The boy doesn’t stare back. However, he _does_ say _hi_ with squinty eyes and a smile every time he sees Harry, and that’s more than enough to make his heart rush all over again.

He doesn’t really mind, kind of likes it, actually: sitting around and simply admiring what the boy is like. It’s a bit annoying that he still doesn’t know his name (he tried looking it up online, on the attendance list, but after going through the course page five times he sort of gave up — he hates the university website), but it’s enough for him to see the boy thrice per week. He’s good at enjoying in silence, or something.

Or, well, maybe he isn’t, because the weekend after the infamous falling-asleep incident, he got drunk with Nick and Pixie, and he might have told them all about his crush.

(“What do you mean I should go up to him? You haven’t seen his eyes, Nick — I can’t look at him without turning into a stuttering mess.”

“Yeah,” Pixie added, “remember last time when Harry went up to one of his crushes and got punched in the balls? It wasn’t pretty.”

Harry groaned, Nick chuckled. Well, Nick was a traitor and Harry wasn’t nearly drunk enough for this. Every single day of his life he regrets telling all ( _all_ ) of his friends about his list of traumatic rejections.

“Or the time before that?” Pixie said. “Gym Boy?” she added in a whisper. Nick had been laughing so hard his bottle of beer threatened to fall over and when Harry reached over to steady it with a scoff, Pixie gave him a pat on his back. He looked over at Pixie’s giggling face and pouted.

“You promised we wouldn’t talk about Gym Boy,” Harry whined, but it was futile. Nick was pretty much rolling on the floor while Pixie was desperately trying to look apologetic without bursting into giggles. Harry took another gulp of his beer and laid down on the floor, pulling a pillow over his head and trying to muffle the sound of their laughter.

 _They’re horrible friends_ , Harry thought, and hid his smile into his arm.

“Who the fuck,” Nick almost screamed with laughter, “goes up to a naked boy in a changing room, and says ‘you have a nice dick’? Who does that?” Harry groaned and stuffed the pillow further over his head, but it did nothing to stifle their hiccuping laughter. They had been over this particular horrible incident one too many times.

“You weren’t even drunk! How do you manage to do such weird things when you aren’t even drunk?”

“It’s a gift,” Harry mumbled, but was muffled by the pillow. Maybe it was better that way.)

For some odd reason, the year seems to have flown by. The sun is warm on Harry’s back when he makes his way towards campus on a Wednesday morning, but he can feel the autumn chill in the air. A few early leaves have found their way to the pavement, dark brown in-between the daisies that are still trying to show off their yellow cores.

When he’s waiting for the traffic light to turn green, Harry plucks a flower or two, puts them between the pages of the novel he’s carrying, so that on a future wintry day, when he’ll open the book, he’ll be met with the memories of flowers blooming.

When he crosses the street and enters the warm university building there are only a few people scattered about. He’s early; chooses to read in one of the chairs in the hallway where the sun throws her warmth onto him.

A couple of minutes before the lecture is supposed to start, Harry sneaks his way inside the lecture hall. He feels a bit guilty for the relieved sigh he lets out when he sees that neither Fiona nor Nick are attending the lecture today. He tells himself it’s because he can focus on the lecture better when they aren’t here to distract him. In reality, he knows that instead of focussing on the lecture, he’ll probably end up focussing on something else entirely. Or, well, _somebody_ else, probably.

The boy isn’t here yet, but that isn’t unusual. Last week he had been late twice, cringing when the door had squeaked when he had sneaked his way in. And then, on Friday, he had worn joggers that looked suspiciously like they had been slept in. Not that Harry minds — he likes seeing his boy ( _his_ boy?! God, this is really getting out of hand) soft and comfy.

He sits down in his usual seat, grabs his notebooks and copies of the poems they’re looking at this week. He ruffles through them for a bit, thinking that he can at least pretend to be contemplating Blake (instead of watching the door out of the corner of his eyes). It’s not like he _dislikes_ Blake. He can objectively appreciate the work and he likes to think that reading poems helps him improve his own poetry, no matter the genre.

(He smiles to himself when he sees _Ah! sunflower_ , remembers loving it when he was still school. He had drawn sunflowers all over his English notebooks, fields full of inky flowers. It must have been around that time when he had started experimenting with words some more, trying to compose sonnets about the roses in his Mum’s garden and the birds twittering in the early summer air.)

He reaches down to his bag to grab his journal, thinking about jotting down a quick poem before the lecture starts, when suddenly someone sits down in the cute boy’s usual seat.

Someone who’s quite decidedly not the cute boy. A long blonde ponytail is pushed into Harry’s face and he splutters at the smell of sweet perfume. Yeah, no. He’s not into this.

It’s then that the door opens again. Looking up, Harry makes eye-contact with the boy who has got his heart aching. He looks straight at him, then at the seat where the girl is now… cleaning her nails? Jeez. Their eyes meet again, and Harry is pretty sure that the pathetic despair in his eyes is visible, but he can’t help it, not when the thought of not being able to stare at the boy during the hour is so crushing.

But then the boy walks over, plops down in the chair next to Harry, and Harry feels a whole different kind of despair.

“Hey,” he says.

It’s the first time Harry hears his voice, and it sends a wave of shivers through his body. How is he supposed to survive an hour of sitting next to a boy who makes his heart do such crazy things? He will surely get a heart-attack, and the boy will have to have to hold his hand while he says his last words, and—

He realises he still hasn’t said a word. He’s been silently gaping at him for a full five seconds now, and he quickly closes his mouth.

_Keep it together, Styles._

“Hiya,” he breathes, eventually. Thankfully, the boy doesn’t seem perturbed and Harry is free to stare at his face some more while the boy yawns behind his hand. “Are you going to fall asleep during class again?” Harry asks. He curses himself, because he always says stupid things like this when he’s nervous.

The boy raises his eyebrows and drops his hand. He’s a bit more stubbly today, which Harry appreciates. Far in the back of his mind there’s a thought about beard burn and thighs, but he pretends it doesn’t exist. It’s 9 in the morning, which is way too early to be having those kinds of thoughts, even about a boy as pretty as the one in front of him.

Pretty boy sits back in his chair. “Maybe,” he grumbles. “What’s it to you? I’ll make sure I won’t drool on you.”

“I don’t mind some drool on me,” Harry responds, which —dumb, Harry, is so incredibly dumb. He smiles sheepishly. “I mean, I support anyone who wants to sleep during Blake.”

He’s so glad Nick isn’t here to see this. This is worse than the Gym Boy incident. He feels himself growing more red by the second, but thankfully the boy simply laughs.

“Noted.”

With that, the professor gives a few non-subtle coughs and begins the lecture. Harry sighs and picks up his pen. He can’t help but think that he’s saved by the bell.

The lecture is… uneventful. Boring, actually. Even Harry, who’s had a solid eight hours of sleep and is sipping steadily from the thermos of coffee that he brought, finds his eyes wandering. He has already drawn three different giraffes in his notebook, which is a new record. Usually he’s more into drawing elephants.

Of course he hasn’t missed out on the fact that the boy next to him is just as bored. He hasn’t stopped shifting in his seat since the prof has mentioned Blake’s date of birth and has let out at least two sighs.

When he’s been sitting still for more than two minutes, Harry gathers his wits and slowly but gradually turns his head. With one arm propped up on the back of the seat supporting his head, the boy has managed to find a way to doze off while sitting upright. To anyone not paying close attention it looks like he’s paying perfect attention to whatever poem the lecturer is reading aloud.

Feeling a bit guilty about consistently staring at the poor guy, even while he’s _sleeping_ , Harry turns back and stares at his hands. He’s almost grateful that the boy has fallen asleep, because now he doesn’t have to worry about accidentally looking silly in front of him anymore. His heart hasn’t stopped beating ever since the boy first took place next to him; a steady rush of anxiety making its way through Harry’s veins. The fear had taken its usual place in his hands, making him tremble and shake, all the while telling himself to _not fuck up, don’t do anything stupid, don’t ruin this for yourself_.

For the first time since the lecture has started, Harry relaxes and focuses on what the prof is telling them. Maybe, he thinks, if he takes some really good notes he can offer them to the boy sleeping next to him when the lecture has ended.

Anyway, it’s not like paying attention to the lecture is so horrible. He’s studying English Lit for a reason, and while he’s generally more interested in modern prose than Romantic poetry, William Blake is an interesting guy. The things the man writes are undeniably different than the jumble of words that Harry writes down, but there’s a certain joy in comparing two things so different and yet so alike.

When the lecturer mentions the Royal Academy Harry scribbles it down, adding more of his own knowledge on the subject between brackets. He hopes it won’t seem showy-offy when he gives his extensive notes to the boy; hopes he will be impressed instead. It would be typically Harry to worm his way into a boy’s heart by means of his elaborate knowledge on dead artists.

Harry’s jotting down some more notes when he feels a thud on his right shoulder. He doesn’t flinch, _thank God_ , because when he turns his head to the right his suspicions are confirmed. The boy has fallen asleep on Harry’s shoulder.

When Harry lets out the breath he had been holding, the sleeping boy pushes his nose further into the burgundy fabric of Harry’s sweater, and wraps his arm around Harry’s waist.

_This boy is going to be the death of him._

He doesn’t know what to do. His heart rate spikes (he’s sure his doctor would be worried if he knew), does he _wake him up?_ Let him sleep? God— Harry bites his lip and doesn’t know if his shivers are from anxiety or from happiness.

The boy is so soft and so small, curled up into Harry’s warmth. It can’t be comfortable, the way his body is twisted in his seat, the way his fingers are clutching Harry’s sweater.

They both stay still for a minute, but when Harry realises that nobody else has noticed their strange positions and that he can still pick up his pen to jot down his notes, he does so. If the boy needs his sleep, who is Harry to wake him up? It’s not like he minds the soft breath onto his neck, or the knee pressed into his thigh. It’s nice, actually. Exciting.

So he refocuses on the lecture and pretends his heart isn’t beating out of his chest. They spend the rest of the lecture like that. Harry writing down his notes and the boy asleep on his shoulder.

When the professor finally wraps up the lecture and turns on the lights, he can feel the boy stirring, lifting his head and unwrapping his arm from around Harry’s waist. His eyes blink a sleepy blue and he frowns when he’s met with the harsh white light of the room. He frowns more when he sees Harry’s face staring right back at him.

The realisation seems to hit him like a bullet. He sits up quickly, looks _horrified_ , while Harry simply chuckles.

“Don’t worry, sleepyhead. You didn’t drool.”

 

. . .

 

They had told him — they had _promised_ him — that they would only go to one pub. Then, they had said, they would go home and watch a film together with a beer and some popcorn. They had even told him that he would be the one allowed to pick the film and he had secretly been thrilled at the thought of being able to watch _Bridesmaids_ again. Watching _Bridesmaids_ with Nick was always a laugh, especially when they were drunk.

But then after they left the first pub, they convinced Harry to come to another one. And then another one.

And now Harry honest to God feels like he’s dying.

“Please, H! Just one more drink, and then we’ll watch _Bridesmaids_. _And_ maybe _Love Actually_ ,” Jamie had whined, and, admittedly, that did sound great.

“Promise?”

“Promise,” Jamie and Niall had said in unison, after which they had all started laughing and walked into the dark alley that led to their usual Sunday-night pub.

Turns out, drunk people often break their promises.

One pub turned into two pubs, two pubs turned into a strange bar filled with girls that weren’t wearing enough clothes. (It’s _September._ Of course Harry supports girls feeling confident enough to show off their bodies, but it’s _way_ too cold for a bloody crop top. He doesn’t want them to catch a cold.) Then, _somehow_ , they had found themselves at a park, cheering on Nick who had tried to climb into a tree. There had been a dog, Harry vaguely remembers, that he had started to pet, and then all of a sudden all of his friends had disappeared. He hadn’t been very pleased when finally, around 4 am on a Monday morning, he had found Niall in front of a closed Lidl, snogging a girl he had picked up God knows where.

They never even ended up watching _Bridesmaids_.

And now here he is, hungover and tired, feet so sore that Harry isn’t quite sure they are really there anymore.

He has a lecture at nine and while he usually doesn’t care all that much about skipping a lecture every once in a while, this is his Romantic poetry course, which, for obvious reasons, he cannot skip.

He plops down on his bed around 5 in the bloody morning. He thinks about taking a short nap, but he’s not sure if it will help. He’s bound to be even more groggy after sleeping for only an hour or two, and anyway, trying to keep Nick from jumping into the river had been _wild_ , and had left Harry more than awake from all the adrenaline.

So he muddles around in his room for a bit, cleaning and making his bed so he can drive straight in after he comes home from his lecture. He takes a long shower, has a quick wank; he spends some time sitting in the sparse sunlight that shines through the (broken) curtains in their shared kitchen.

When he gets tired of the horrible smell that has taken permanent residence in the kitchen (after too many cheese toasties have been burned on the low-quality stove) he drops his novel with a deep sigh, grabs his coat and bag, and makes his way to the nearest coffee shop.

Because the morning is slow and he still has more than enough time left to get to campus, he decides to sit down with his coffee next to one of the foggy windows, and pulls his books out to get some reading done.

Well — in theory. Because in reality he is too tired to even read the title of the article he has printed. And it’s not like his mind is focussed on poetry anyway. He finds himself drifting off, thinking about the boy who had fallen asleep on him last week.

It had been so soft, and nice, and not awkward at all.

Harry’s generally not too great with physical contact. Or at least, he _loves_ it, but he always feels way too anxious to initiate it. During his first hug with Nick, back in the day, the only things going through his mind had been _do I smell_ and _am I breathing weirdly_. Nick had known, of course, because Nick is Nick, and he had squeezed his waist and mumbled a quiet “stop worrying, Styles.”

And then — he hadn’t felt anxious at all when, in the middle of a bloody _lecture_ , the boy’s head had dropped onto his shoulder. It should have given him trembling hands, he thinks, but all it did was make him feel calm.

He realises he’s way too tired to sit through a whole lecture without an extra latte when the harsh sound of the shop’s door closing wakes him up from his thoughts. He almost sends his empty cup sprawling over the floor, but thankfully he manages to catch it in time and it seems like nobody has noticed.

When he walks up to the counter, book under his arm and bag slung over his shoulder, he gets the idea. It’s not exactly an _idea_ as much as an impulse, something stupid that his sleepy brain comes up with and that he isn’t awake enough for to feel anxious about.

He orders another two lattes.

Struggling to hold the two cups in one hand (big though they may be) he slowly but gradually makes his way towards the lecture theatre.

When he gets to his seat the boy isn’t there yet. It looks a bit awkward, having _two_ cups of coffee in front of him. He feels a bit anxious about what people might think; that he’s been out all night, drinking and behaving like an idiot. Which isn’t wrong per se, but it’s not like he _wanted_ to follow his drunk friends through the streets when they could have been watching a film under a blanket.

The only thing that might make this whole ordeal more horrifying is if this would be the day that the boy doesn’t show up to the lecture. It’s not like that has happened before — he and Harry are the only ones who haven’t skipped a single lecture yet — but Harry’s heart beats furiously nonetheless. He puts his notebook down, grabs a pen, and pretends to do something interesting on his phone while he waits.

Two minutes to go until the lecture starts, and the girl with the ponytail takes the seat in front of him.

Harry takes an anxious sip of his coffee, looks at his watch again and pretends that he doesn’t feel disappointed when he sees it’s 9 o’clock sharp.

And then the boy enters the room. He looks at Harry and he, _God_ , he walks straight towards him. It must be the adrenaline rush that keeps Harry sitting upright, eyes locked onto the boy’s when he makes his way across the row of empty seats to sit down right next to Harry.

When he sits down Harry immediately pushes one of the cups towards him. There’s no time for awkward pauses, not when it feels like this is the moment that will either make or break them.

“Hi,” he says. He has to swallow back a squeak when the boy smiles at him. “I brought you some coffee. So that you don’t fall asleep again?”

The boy raises an eyebrow. “You didn’t appreciate me falling asleep on you last time?”

They stare at each other for a second, and then both burst out laughing. It’s all feels so easy, leaning towards the guy and putting a hand on his shoulder. He gives a soft squeeze when he mumbles, “no, I didn’t mind.” With a wink, he adds, “it was actually kind of cute.”

More breathless laughter escapes from soft lips and when Harry looks up he sees a sparkle in the boys’ eyes. It all feels like summer, and spending days together laying in the sun, hands interlinked. Or like long road trips through empty deserts, he thinks when he takes a sip of his coffee, and only their hearts to keep each other company.

“Thank you,” the boy murmurs softly and looks down at the name on the coffee cup. “I really appreciate it, Harry.”

“It was my pleasure. Was feeling pretty rough myself so I thought I could buy the both of us some coffee. Would be a shame if we missed the lecture, right? I mean, I guess I could have brought us espressos if we _really_ wanted to stay awake, but I love a good latte myself, so. I don’t even know if you like lattes, but… well I mean…” He looks down at his fumbling hands, hoping and praying that the boy doesn’t mind his rambling. He’s got a slow voice, he _knows_ , but he just likes thinking things through before saying them out loud.

But when he looks up, the boy is simply smiling, and hasn’t turned away from Harry yet. Actually, he turns more towards him and softly bumps with his shoe against Harry’s.

“Well, Harry,” he takes a sip of his coffee and hums appreciatively, “I’m usually more a cappuccino kind of guy,” he says, “but I won’t decline a latte when it comes from a boy so handsome.”

Harry tries to wrinkle his nose, but it’s hard when he has such a big smile on his face. “I will buy you a cappuccino next time if you give me your number,” he says, and it comes out smoother than he expected. In all honesty, he would buy the boy all the cappuccinos in the world if it meant he could look into those blue eyes again.

He blesses himself for not actually saying that out loud, and simply hands the boy his phone with a smirk. He doesn’t even hesitate before he takes it from Harry, keeping eye contact all the while.

“Sent myself a message so I got your number too, okay?” he says, and hands the phone back. Their hands touch, and Harry’s fingers twitch.

Later, after class, after Harry has caught some sleep, he realises that he still doesn’t know the boy’s name. It’s then that he sees the text — and he falls back into bed with a smile as big as the ocean.

. . .

 

He doesn’t end up buying Louis a cappuccino before class. It’s Reading Week, which means there won’t be any lectures, which means there won’t be any Louis.

The weather has been nice to Harry, because the rain gives him a perfect excuse for spending his day curled up on his bed with a novel in his hand. He finished most of the required reading after only two days, because Harry is nothing if not an ardent literature student, so he ends up writing ten pages full of poems that don’t feel quite right. He’s struggling with the words and his arm is aching from trying to write while lying down, but at least it distracts him from the fact that he hasn’t seen any of his friends in the last few days. Even his phone has been silent for a full 24 hours now, after he got Louis’ two skull emojis as a response to his picture of the amount of reading they had to do.

He’s not desperate. Or so he tells himself. He sighs, and jots down another sentence.

He wakes up from an unplanned nap when someone knocks at his door loudly. There’s only one person who could come by unannounced, so he isn’t surprised when Nick storms into the room and throws himself down next to Harry.

Eloquent as ever, he lets out a long groan and buries his face in Harry’s hair. “Haaaaaaaz,” he whines, while he tries to nose himself deeper into Harry’s curls.

“I know,” Harry sighs. “How many books have you got left to read?”

“Two novels and a volume of Wordsworth. Dead awful.”

“Yeah.”

“Yeah.”

They’re both silent for a while. It’s okay. It’s quite nice, actually, lying here together. Harry’s glad to have Nick. He can be a bit of knob sometimes, a little too crazy for Harry’s liking, but he’s also a constant in Harry’s life, something which Harry desperately needs. Nick knows how to check up on Harry when he disappears off the radar for a couple of days, every so often. They’ve never really talked about it, but he thinks that Nick understands, how sometimes Harry gets a little too lost in his own mind and hides between the walls of his room.

They take a little nap together, wrapped up in each other’s arms, and decide to watch a film afterward. Nick still owes him a viewing of _Bridesmaids_ after all.

Harry grumbles when he feels a hand petting his curls when the title screen comes up, but he doesn’t protest further when Nick scratches his head. He’s a bit like a puppy, in that regard. Can never sit still, until someone starts pampering him.

“So, what’s going on?”

Harry groans and tries to hide the frown on his face. But Nick softly pulls his hair and twists his head up so that their eyes meet. He must see something there, in that pool of green, because he mumbles an “oh, Harry,” and scoots down until they’re face to face.

“It’s nothing important,” Harry pouts. “Just a boy.”

“Still the same one?”

Harry grumbles. “You don’t have to sound so surprised. I’m not that much of a slag.”

He gets a soft chuckle and a pat on his cheek in response. “I know, baby,” Nick says, “but your heart _is_ kind of a slag, to be honest. You have more crushes than I have hangovers, and that says a _lot_.”

It’s true, is the thing. Harry’s heart is kind of fickle — _very_ fickle, as all of his friends know. Even Gemma sometimes gets tired of hearing about all the people Harry sees on the streets and momentarily falls in love with, and Gemma normally _loves_ a good romantic story. Well, not that the crushes Harry has are all that romantic, because they don’t really get much further than ‘admiring from afar.’

When they do, his dates usually leave Harry aching for something he cannot put into words. Last time he asked for a girl’s number, Harry took her to the cutest coffee shop he knows and wore his fanciest shirt. He left her with her tea still warm when she asked “whose place they were going to go back to” because she “really couldn’t wait to see his dick.” She had been nice, but it had made Harry feel very out of place. He isn’t really comfortable with that meaningless sex sort of thing.

“I know,” he mumbles to Nick when he has been silent for too long. “I know what I’m usually like and what my dates are usually like, and that makes everything so much worse.” He sighs. “I really like this one, Nick. He’s beautiful, and sweet, and he’s _honest_. And I’m sure he likes books as much as I do, and when we talked he didn’t seem to mind my rambling, and when I sneezed he said bless you — not many people actually do that these days —, and he lent me his pen, and—”

“Sounds like a keeper,” Nick says dryly, but when Harry looks up he can see something soft in the other boy’s eyes. They share a secret smile.

Then, Nick is sitting up and slaps his thighs. “Well come on, let’s catch that boy of yours. Do we need booze for this?”

“We need booze for this.”

After a quick trip to the loo (and some digging through his closet to find a shirt that’s both clean and not too sheer), Harry realises that he has neither food nor alcohol in the kitchen. Because Nick is an ass, they decide that Harry will run out into the pelting rain to get some wine while Nick orders some food from the comfort of Harry’s bed. Using Harry’s money.

It’s just as well, Harry thinks, because he hasn’t been outside for a while and the wind feels foreign and refreshing on his face. It’s gotten so much colder that a scarf is necessary, and his socks get wet when he steps into a puddle once too often. He wonders if people can see it on his face, that he feels like a stranger in his own hometown. Like he’s left the planet for a while.

It’s always an unknown fear of showing his face to the world that chains him to his own room for days that seem endless. In his first year of uni there would be nights when he went to bed without dinner, because he was feeling too awful and scared to walk into the shared kitchen where he could hear his flatmates having fun without him. Thankfully, he’s mostly past that now. He’s gotten awfully good at pretending. Walking to class pretending he’s enjoying the fresh air instead of letting people see the fear of tripping over his own feet, of people laughing at him, and him rather staying on the ground forever than trying to get up with a hole in his jeans. Sitting in class pretending he’s paying attention, instead of fearfully making sure that his hair isn’t sticking up, that he doesn’t smell bad, that the girls whispering behind him aren’t whispering about _him_.

He’d like to not give a _fuck_ about what people think of him, and he’s getting better, slowly, but he isn’t there yet.

He’s shaking slightly when he hands over his ID to the cashier. But she gives him a smile, and he smiles back, and maybe things aren’t as bad as the last days have made him think.

.

“So,” Nick says, “what info do we have?”

They’ve opted for sitting in the kitchen instead of Harry’s bedroom. A flatmate is quietly stirring her soup while they munch on the pizzas that Nick ordered. One of them has pineapple on it, which is a bit of a disgrace.

He takes a sip of his wine and rolls his eyes, but he secretly loves that Nick even brought a notebook with him to write down his “masterplan” that will “surely win the poor boy over.”

“We can’t let these important things up to fate, popstar,” Nick had said when they had settled onto the kitchen’s grimy sofas. “This boy might be your soulmate. Don’t throw away the seed before you’ve given it a chance to grow.”

Apart from the horrible not-English-Major-worthy metaphor, Nick did have a point.

“He’s called Louis,” Harry says, “but I have no clue about what his surname is.”

Nick hums and writes down ‘LOUIS’ in capital letters on top of the page. “Do we know if he’s French? That might be important.”

“How is that important?” Harry grumbles.

“He might speak French in bed.”

“I’m un-friending you.”

Three slices of pizza and a glass of wine later, they’ve managed to establish that stalking someone of Facebook when you don’t know their surname or any of their friends is, well, impossible. They’ve gone through some of the university’s pages, lists of all the people in their course that Harry knows, the English Lit society, and, because they were desperate, the LGBT society.

(“We don’t even know if he’s gay, Nick.”

“Harry, he called you handsome. There’s no way that boy is straight.”)

In total, they find two people who share Louis’ name, one of which is a bulky footballer, and the other of which is blond and very, very tall. It’s definitely not the Louis they’re looking for.

“Do you know any places where he comes often? A coffee shop? Bookstore?” Nick asks, but Harry shakes his head.

“I’ve only ever seen him in class.”

Nick sighs in defeat. “So you have no way of contacting him instead of seeing him in class?”

“Well, I have his number.”

Nick quacks. “You have his number?!” He tries to slap Harry on his head, which, of course, means that Harry gracelessly falls off the chair and onto the dirty floor. Instead of trying to help him up like a normal friend, Nick merely stares at him, and says, “Jesus, boy, what are you doing here sulking in your room? Go send him a message!”

Harry slowly stands up, pout on his face, and doesn’t say anything while he cleans up the empty pizza boxes. “‘m not sulking,” he grumbles while hitting the cardboard in a desperate attempt to fit it into the trash can. “‘m just a bit scared, is all.”

The thing is, he can be a bit awkward with texting. Never really knows for sure what to say; always a bit too afraid to make stupid mistakes. The worst part: text messages are, well, pretty permanent. He really does not want to end up on Buzzfeed’s “These Attempts At Flirting Are So Awful They Will Make Your Stomach Ache.”

It’s hard to say that to Nick though. It’s just one of those simple things that turns into really difficult problems in his mind. One of those things that he just has to push through if he ever wants to get further in life. He knows, he knows, he knows. But that doesn’t make it any easier.

“We sent a couple of texts to each other,” he says, and sighs. “I just don’t know how to ask him out, like _properly_ , without sounding like an idiot.”

Nick puts an arm around Harry’s waist and squeezes softly. “You have to put yourself out there, Harry.”

So that’s what he does.

 

. . .

. . .

 

They go out two days later.

Harry’s wearing a shirt that’s probably too thin for the weather, but he likes showing off his tummy. He’s worked hard on it. He’s freezing, just a little bit, when he steps outside into the chilly autumn air. It’s not that the temperature is so low — still a wholesome 17 degrees, but the wind is biting. He’s going to get a cold, but Louis is worth it.

Wrapping his coat tighter around him, he looks left and right before crossing the road. The coffee shop where they planned to meet is two streets away; two streets that Harry tries to walk normally, even when he feels like dancing around with his heart beating in his throat. He’s not sure if it’s nerves or excitement, but one way or another he’s sweating slightly and has already tripped over his own feet twice.

He is five minutes early, of course, but there aren’t too many other people in the coffee shop. He chooses a seat next to one of the floor-to-ceiling windows and plops down.

The place is probably one of his favourite places in the city. The numerous windows make the space seem bigger than it really is, and the soft chairs and big tables make it perfect for spending hours on end writing poetry, reading, and staring out of the window to watch the people on the street. The owners have a soft spot for him, he thinks, because it’s happened more than once that on one of his spend-hours-scribbling-into-a-notebook-days Edith would come up to him with a sandwich or a fresh cup of tea. She fusses over him, Edith. Says he needs to eat properly, that he needs to change those thin giraffe legs of his into limbs that will actually catch him when he falls. They both know she’s right.

She’s behind the counter when Harry pushes open the heavy glass door. She raises her eyebrows knowingly when she sees him stumble and raises her eyebrows again when he says he’ll order later, because he’s meeting a boy.

For some strange reason, he doesn’t worry about being stood up, even when he’s been waiting ten minutes and Louis is five minutes late. Maybe it’s that he sort of trusts Louis, or maybe it’s the _looking forward to tomorrow xx_ text that he received around midnight.

Eventually, Louis stumbles in just as gracelessly as Harry did. He sort of falls against the door, is red in the face and panting when he finally manages to get it open, and it takes a little too long before he finally spots Harry sitting somewhere to his right. He seems a bit embarrassed when he finally sits down opposite him, but all Harry can focus on is his heart racing at the sight of the boy.

“Hey,” Louis pants.

“Hey.”

“I’m sorry,” he starts. “I had to return a book at the library but they wouldn’t lend me another one because I already have ten books at home, but then the lady said she’d get me a special card because she knows I read a lot, but then that took ages and—“ he sighs. “Well, actually, there’s no excuse. I shouldn’t have kept you waiting.”

Harry smiles. It’s probably the first time that he doesn’t mind the string of excuses that he’s familiar with from his dates. It’s because Louis’ seem genuine, just like he seems genuinely sorry to have kept Harry waiting.

“That’s okay,” he says. “It happens to the best of us.”

Louis does his crinkly-eyed smile and, _yeah_ , Harry really doesn’t mind waiting five minutes if he gets to see that smile. He’d wait an _eternity_ to see that smile again.

Edith comes over to get their orders; tea and apple pie for both of them. She smiles when Louis fusses over the kind of tea he wants, which must be a good sign. For some reason it feels like Louis has passed a secret test when Edith gives Harry a squeeze on his shoulder and a thumbs up behind Louis’ back when she leaves.

“You know her?” Louis asks while inclining his head towards the kitchen.

He nods. “Her name’s Edith. I come here so often that at some point she started to recognise me. Now she brings me free sandwiches and provides me with great conversation.”

“That seems nice,” Louis smiles. “Sort of what I have in the library. Spend too much time there, between the books.”

Edith comes over with their tea and cake, which they quietly thank her for. Louis’ looking at the slice of pie like he’s never seen something so majestic before, which was exactly the reaction Harry had when he first ordered Edith’s homemade pie. Thick crust and so full of apples that it spoiled all other pie for him. There’s nothing even remotely as good as Edith’s.

When Louis takes a bite Harry takes his chance to ogle him shamelessly. He’s not ashamed to say that the first thing his eyes fall on is Louis’ lips, because that is where the full fork of cake is heading. (Or so he tells himself. Maybe there are other reasons why’s he’s focussing on Louis’ lips, but he’s not ready to think about that.) There’s still a healthy pink shade to his stubbly cheeks and his eyes seem more sky than ocean today. It matches the soft blue hoodie he’s wearing — slightly too big, rolled up at the sleeves and falling low onto his collarbones.

He’s wearing the pair of black skinnies that Harry secretly likes the most, with a rip near one knee which shows off his soft skin. It’s a blessing, honestly, seeing Louis in skinnies. He almost can’t wait to get Louis out of the coffee shop and into the open air, where (hopefully) they’ll spend some more time together and Harry will be able to admire the boy in full.

“So, you’re really into reading, aren’t you?” he asks after taking a bite of his own pie.

Louis nods. “I dunno why. I feel a bit restless when I’m not reading a book, mad though that may sound.”

“Even when you were younger?”

“Nah,” Louis shakes his head. “Household was a bit too mad for that. All started ‘cause of school. They made all of us read at five novels for an oral test — which was hell, by the way. Anyway, I read five books and found that I actually liked reading a lot; I guess it distracted me from other things in my life that I was struggling with. So I decided to read some more, at first just to have more options to choose from for the oral, but then it got out of hand. Ended it up with a list of 50, and the teacher gave me a straight A.”

“That’s such a good story,” Harry laughs. Their eyes meet again. Harry takes a dive in blue, and doesn’t try to come up for air.

 

. . .

 

Date two is a trip to the library. Well, it’s not really a date; Harry just needs a book for the history course he’s taking, so he texted Louis and things progressed from there.

It’s Sunday, which means the library is full of lazy students working on their essays. Harry probably should have been working on his own essay as well, but he had been too busy hanging around campus trying to ‘accidentally’ bump into a certain boy he likes. It hadn’t worked. Eventually, he had given up and straight out asked Louis if he wanted to meet up. The responding “yes” had arrived within two minutes.

The weather has worsened. It’s still nice — soft rain changing into a soothing sun now and then. Between the green leaves on the trees, yellow ones have started to appear, and Harry’s bedroom floor is a mixture of clothes and mud-caked shoes.

The sun has decided to show her face when Harry steps out. It’s sweater weather, so Harry has decided to change his sheer shirt into a comforable jumper. It’s horrendously green, but it actually looks kind of quirky combined with his (women’s) skinnies and his new boots. It will catch Louis’ attention, for sure.

He had picked out the outfit with Nick, yesterday evening, after they had watched some bad telly together and Harry had given a detailed account of date number one. He’d told Nick about Louis’ whispered “you look stunning in that shirt, Haz,” and about Harry admitting that he has never had a serious relationship, even at age 20. (Louis had grabbed his hand reassuringly, and said, “there no need to hurry; every river flows at its own pace.”)

They had ordered more tea and another slice of apple pie (which they had _shared_ ; something straight out of Harry’s dreams). They had talked more about what Louis reads, about what Harry writes, about their families and what they do in their free time. There had been laughter and a lot of blushing on Harry’s side, more laughter when Louis had dropped a piece of apple onto the floor, and so much warmth and happiness that Harry had pinched himself to make sure that he wasn’t dreaming, that this was really his life, that he was really this lucky.

When it had started to rain they had watched the people on the street hurrying across the pavements. Louis had told him, softly, under his breath, about taking night shifts at his second job, to be able to help his family out. About wanting to go home every weekend to help with groceries, with bringing his one sister to ballet and his other one to a birthday party, but simply not having the money for a train ticket.

It had dawned on Harry — that not every boy who’s sleepy in a 9 am lecture has been partying all night. Some have been working; working to be able to support their family.

Louis is already standing in front of the library when Harry arrives. He gives him a quick once-over, the black skinnies (again, God bless), a lined denim jacket and a Stone Roses t-shirt. His cheeks are flushed from the cold and his hands are buried deep into his pockets, until he draws them out to give Harry a brief hug.

“Hey,” he says, and nods his head towards the entrance. “Ready?”

Even the library cafe is full of students working on their essays, and the lift is so full it takes three minutes to arrive. It’s a bit mad, and Harry’s never been a fan of lifts, but they need to be on the 8th floor, which, even for Harry, is a bit too much to walk. He catches Louis playfully rolling his eyes when they have to squeeze themselves through the glass doors. There’s a boy who’s trying to insert himself into the already full lift and he’s making everyone press together awkwardly.

“Sorry,” Harry says and carefully rests his hand on the small of Louis’ back. But instead of simply smiling as Harry expects him to do, Louis puts his free hand on Harry’s waist and turns towards him. “It’s okay,” he says, and looks straight up into Harry’s eyes. “I don’t mind.”

Which is… _God_ , it’s a lot, seeing those blue crinkly eyes up close and standing chest to chest, and it makes Harry’s heart start beating so hard every single person in the lift must notice it, and his and Louis’ chests are still pressed together, so surely _Louis_ will notice it, which is awkward as _hell_ , Louis must think he is a creep or something, especially because he’s sure his mouth is open but he doesn’t know how to close it—

Louis smiles, ducks his head, and pressed a tiny kiss against Harry’s chest. “Close your mouth, babe. You may be kind of froggy, but we wouldn’t want you to catch any flies.”

When the lift doors open, it’s a blessing as well as a curse. Louis skips ahead, bag already in his hand and coat halfway unbuttoned. Harry doesn’t mind when the boy chooses their seats in one of the faraway corners, rain slowly dripping down the window and throwing eerie shapes onto the table.

“This is my favourite place to read,” Louis says as he sits down. Leaning backward in his chair, a soft sliver of his belly exposed, he rubs a shy hand through his hair as he looks around him. “I know it’s not perfect or anything. Sun always shines in your face and whatnot, but I guess I like that I have my own spot now. Got me surrounded by my own books, you know?”

Harry does know. He lets his fingertips travel over the rows and rows of old spines, titles and names that promise him tales of faraway places. Irving, Joyce, Kerouac — names familiar and yet so distant from him. It’s the magic thing about literature, he thinks, how such a simple story can take you to the most wonderful places.

“So which one’s your favourite?” he asks.

“Favourite what? Author or book?”

“Both.”

Louis snorts. The chair creaks as he leans forward again. “Asking the _real_ questions, are you?” he teases, and Harry laughs. “This might make or break whatever our shared future entails,” he deadpans. But he knows it’s not true — knows he would probably like Louis anyway, whether he prefers Douglas Adams or Thomas Hardy.

He drops his hand and sits down across from Louis while he thinks. He’s biting his lip (which is very distracting) but doesn’t seem to notice he’s doing it as he stares into the distance.

“Favourite book? Probably _Catch-22_ ,” Louis says eventually. “It took me so long to get through the beginning and I didn’t really get what it was all about, but then, I don’t know, I suddenly understood the despair and the ridiculousness, and how sad it all was, and that really got to me.”

Harry’s pretty sure he read it too, back when he was still in school and filled lonely hours with endless books. He’s had his war phase, as everyone. Started with Siegfried and Sassoon and ended with Vonnegut. Eventually he realised it probably didn’t help with curing his depression, and moved on.

“Good choice,” he admits. “And Joseph Heller is your favourite author?”

Louis shakes his head. “Nah. Well, I don’t know. _Catch-22_ is the only book of his that I’ve read.” He’s quiet for a second. “I don’t think I have read enough to pick a favourite author. There are authors whose ideas I love, but then I’ve only read one or two books of theirs, which obviously isn’t enough to judge if you like that person or not, you know? I guess I appreciate every author in their own way, I don’t know. What about you?”

Harry shrugs and shifts in his seat. There’s no way he can come up with a response like Louis’, who’s clearly thought about stuff like this. It amazes Harry, sometimes, how smart Louis is. How he always knows how to support his arguments in a way that makes _sense_. All that Harry can do is go with what he’s feeling. He’s a poet, after all. Poets feel too much.

“I’m more of a writer than a reader,” he ends up answering. Louis nods, because he knows about Harry’s poems. He’s seen him scribbling into his journal during lectures. “My favourite book is probably _Siddhartha_ , just because it always calms me. I do read a lot of poetry as well, of course, because it inspires my own poetry.”

Louis smiles and reaches forward to grab his hand. “Can’t wait for the day that you allow me to read one of your poems,” he says with a wink that makes Harry blush.

They spend the rest of the time reading next to each other, pinkies touching, looking up every so often and smiling together.

 

. . .

 

It’s quiet for a moment before Louis seems to understand what Harry has just said. He lets out a soft squeak. “Wait, so you’re saying that you’ve never had sex?”

Harry sighs, and leans back against the wall. He’s sitting on the floor in only his pyjama pants and fluffy socks.

“Yeah.”

He sighs again and presses his free hand to his face. “That’s exactly what I’m saying,” he mumbles into the phone.

“Wow. What about blowjobs, though? They count as sex, in my opinion. Handjobs?”

“No, Lou. Nothing. No sex, no blowjobs, no handjobs, no kissing. Unless you count the neighbour’s daughter when we were 12. _Does_ that count?”

“Harry…”

They’ve been on the phone for at least an hour. Harry had started texting him when he couldn’t bring himself to make dinner. He’s been sitting in his room all afternoon, writing an endless string of poems. When his phone had rung, Louis’ name and picture on his screen, he had picked up only to hear a commanding “get into the kitchen, Styles, and make yourself something to eat” into his ear. They haven’t stopped talking since.

He put the phone on speaker when Harry had started making his tomato soup and had put his garlic bread into the oven. He had expected Louis to hang up and had already grabbed a pen and paper for his next poem, but then Louis had refused to hang up until he was sure that Harry was eating. “Food first, Harold, your literary profession can wait.” And then Harry had eaten his dinner, and he and Louis had kept on talking. He doesn’t think he’s ever talked to someone this long without being drunk. It makes him both happy and sad.

He doesn’t know why they’re talking about sex now. It makes him a bit uncomfortable, if he’s honest. Not sex itself, because he’s really, very much, truly ready for it to happen. It’s just a bit embarrassing to admit to anyone that he’s twenty and a virgin.

Maybe he isn’t so much ashamed as he is afraid — afraid that Louis will think that he’s pathetic, and a waste of time, and not boyfriend-worthy.

Yeah, okay, maybe he’s freaking out a little.

“Please don’t be angry,” are the words he manages to get out of his mouth eventually.

“Harry?”

“Please.”

The other side of the line is quiet for a second before he hears the creak of Louis shifting in his chair. “Harry,” he starts, but then falls silent again. Harry feels like crying.

“Harry, I’m not angry. I would never be angry, I’m just surprised, I think, and maybe a bit afraid, ‘cause I’ve sucked like a hundred dicks, and that’s not a turn off for you, is it? Do you want to wait until marriage, is that it? Or are you asexual? You know that’s fine, right?”

“No,” he whispers. “No, it’s nothing like that, I don’t know. I don’t think having sex is bad, or anything. Your body your choice, and all that, but I guess it’s kind of a sore subject for me because even though I wanted it, it’s never happened, you know? Maybe that makes it worse, that me being a fucking virgin wasn’t a choice, but that having sex never really felt like an option.”

“Because you’ve never had a relationship?”

“Yeah, maybe, I don’t know. I’ve never been comfortable in a club or at a party, maybe other people feel that? And are turned off by it? Just— the idea of meeting someone and ending up in bed like that seems so foreign, like something that could never happen to me.”

“Baby…” Louis sounds almost breathless. They’re both quiet for a minute, thinking, getting lost in their own heads. It’s kind of nice to finally talk about it, Harry guesses. He has Nick, of course, and Fiona, but they’re both really great at pulling at parties, and they’ve never seen Harry’s (lack of a) sex life as something that could actually bother Harry, only as something to occasionally make a joke about.

It feels like, for the first time, someone is really listening.

“You know that there’s nothing wrong with you, right?” Louis asks.

“I know,” Harry responds. His voice is still shaking. “But sometimes it feels like there is.”

 

. . . 

 

Harry finishes his third notebook of poems a month after his and Louis’ first date.

It’s a bit mad. He’s always written a lot, prose too, but the words seem to flow out of him without resistance. They’re all blue, they’re all soft, they’re all autumn days spent wrapped up in blankets. He’s even shown some of them to Nick, who claimed they were “dead nice.”

He hasn’t shown anyone else. His mother sort of knows that he writes, but only cares about it because she thinks it will help him process his emotions better. Which is probably true, even though she doesn’t understand that he’s aiming for more than simply improving his own mental health. He’s been dreaming about getting published since he wrote his first word as a kid.

Louis knows about it, that he wants to be published, but Harry feels too awkward to show him anything. He’s proud of his own writing and he sort of appreciates his own play with words, but purposefully showing Louis his work feels like asking for praise that he isn’t sure he deserves.

Eventually, it’s Pixie who grabs his fate by the balls, and unabashedly hands over one of his dilapidated notebooks to their English professor. Who seems surprised, but not annoyed, thankfully, and he tells them that he appreciates their confidence in him, and that he will take a look to see if the poems are really as good as Pixie claims they are.

He gets the email three days later.

 

 _Dear Mr Styles,_

_I have taken a look at the poems that you have entrusted me, and must say that I’m pleasantly surprised. Your vocabulary is very impressive and your placements of words is very interesting. I see a lot of potential._

_I took the liberty of sending some of the poems to a friend of mine who publishes students’ work, to see if she might be interested. She told me she would love to take a closer look at some of your work. I’ll send you her contact details._

_Kind regards,_

_Professor Allen Miller_

He spends five minutes staring outside, looking at the bird in the tree opposite his window. He stares at a leaf that slowly makes its way to the ground. He stares at the raindrops gliding down the window.

He’s so happy, so astonished, that he can barely process it. It’s all of those things that he dreamed of as a child, happening at once — going to university, meeting friends that he feels at home with, meeting a boy like Louis, getting people to actually appreciate his poems. It’s mad. It’s so much that he can barely believe it.

He calls Pixie first, because she’s the one who helped him. They annoy the whole neighbourhood with their ecstatic screaming, and he thanks her so many times that the words ‘thank you so much’ start to feel unreal in his mouth.

Then he calls Nick who does some ecstatic screaming as well, before getting serious and telling Harry in all honesty how _damn proud_ he is, and how much he deserves it. Harry doesn’t cry, but it’s a close call.

He doesn’t call Louis. Sends a text instead, _can I come over?_ He prays to God that Louis isn’t busy, that he’s at the library and they can both be in Louis’ room within the next ten minutes, otherwise Harry will combust, _God_ , he’s so happy, and all he wants is to share it with Louis.

The text he gets in response simply says _give me 15 mins_.

The walk to Louis’ place is short, but it feels endless to Harry. He knows he’ll be there in less than 15 minutes, that there’s no need to hurry because Louis won’t be there yet anyway, but he finds himself walking so fast you could almost call it running. The email from the professor is still opened on his phone and he finds himself glancing towards it every so often.

In the end, he doesn’t have to wait long in front of Louis door before he sees the boy at the end of the street. He can’t help it, and he doesn’t really try to stop himself: he stands up so quickly his head rushes, and runs, and runs, and runs, until Louis is right there in front of him, and then he jumps into his arms.

Louis catches him. Louis always catches him.

“Hey,” he says, breathlessly, and looks up into Harry’s eyes with the brightest smile. “What’s going on?”

“I got some great news,” he says, and when both of his feet are back on the ground he buries his head into Louis’ neck and gives him another hug. Louis returns it, properly, both his arms around Harry’s shaking body, shaking out of happiness this time, not fear, not anxiety, even when he knows that he’s making a spectacle out of himself in the middle of the trees. Louis is the only thing on his mind.

He pulls back eventually, and pushes his phone into Louis’ face. With a confused frown he starts to read, and with every second that passes his face gets brighter, until finally he looks up again, and pulls Harry in for another hug.

“I’m so proud of you, darling,” he murmurs into Harry’s ear. His hand is clasped so tightly around Harry’s body that he can feel the place where Louis’ fingers pull on his coat. “I’m so proud and so happy for you,” he murmurs again. “You deserve this. You really do.”

When he pulls back, he hesitates, and looks Harry in the eye. Then, because some dreams really do come true, he leans in, and presses his lips against Harry’s.

It’s soft, and gentle, and very scary. Harry’s heart does a strange little flip, seems to explode, because after that Harry doesn’t feel his heart anymore, can only feel Louis, _Louis_ , always Louis. He pulls back, and doesn’t waste a second before pressing forward again, pressing their lips together because being apart physically _hurts_ , and even through all of the fear of _am I kissing right_ and _does my breath smell_ Harry can feel that the magic between their lips is good. It’s really good.

When their tongues get involved, one hand buries deep in his hair; the other cradles a cheekbone. They’re in the middle of the street. It has started to rain. For Harry, there’s only Louis, and soft lips against soft lips, and finally feeling that one thing that all his poems are about.

He blesses Louis, and all of the Gods in the world, for falling asleep during lectures.

When they both pull back Louis looks a bit dazed and has a lazy smile on his face. “Let’s do that again sometime,” he mumbles, and the hand that’s still in Harry’s hair gives a soft squeeze. Harry smiles back, and brings his lips towards Louis’ ear, and whispers, “maybe if you take me back to yours.” He punctuates it with the softest kiss to the place where Louis’ hair and stubble meet.

They don’t hold hands on their way down the street, but their pinkies touch.

 

. . . 

. . . 

 

Three weeks pass before they go on the museum date.

It’s not that they don’t want to; Louis has been saying _please take me soon_ (with wriggling eyebrows) ever since Harry first sent him the text. And he seems genuinely excited.

“It’s not that I don’t like museums. I love the idea of it, I guess, but we just— never really had the money to go.”

That’s also something they’ve been talking about. Louis’ money stuff.

Days together are spent reading, and watching bad rom-coms, and kissing each other while Harry makes dinner, and talking. It’s like the floodgates have opened, now that the worst is out there. There’s embarrassing childhood memories, melancholy dreams, secret hopes for distant futures. They share all of it. Lying in Harry’s bed, sides pressed together and hands linked, they spend hours talking through it all.

“It was really difficult sometimes, being poor,” Louis whispers on a Saturday afternoon. They are spooning, which they do more often than not, but this time it’s Harry who has thrown his arm around Louis’ waist and is breathing softly down his neck. He buries his nose deeper into Louis’ soft skin when Louis sighs.

“There was always enough food on the table, that wasn’t the problem. But Mum was exhausted all the time, because she worked so much and then came home to a madhouse of little girls. I think she felt guilty whenever she asked me to help out with the kids. She cried when I gave her the money I earned from my first job. I didn’t even mind. I’d do anything for her.

“What was the hardest was to see what it did to the girls. I remember when Daisy wanted to do ballet so bad, she asked Mum for lessons every day when she came back from school. But it just wasn’t an option, because we would need money for the lessons, for the clothes, for fuel, and it… just wasn’t realistic. After a year or so Daisy stopped asking. Think she finally understood that Mum wasn’t refusing her out of malice, or anything. It just wasn’t possible.”

It’s hard for Louis to talk about it, Harry can tell. He’s tense in Harry’s arms, gripping his hand tightly.

“It still does weird things to me. Can’t spend money on food without feeling nervous about it. Spending a pound on chocolate feels like a pound wasted, you know?”

Harry doesn’t know, but he nods anyway and squeezes Louis’ hand. “Whoever said that money doesn’t buy you happiness is a dumbass,” he says, and Louis lets out a breath.

“Yeah.”

And Louis still works two jobs, which is difficult.

It’s not that they don’t have time to see each other, because they do. They see each other before lectures, hurried kisses to blushing cheeks whenever they’re late and _should_ be going, but can’t let go of each other yet. They see each other during lectures, trying to take notes while holding hands under the table. They see each other after lectures, making excuses about doing coursework together just because they don’t want to say goodbye.

They see each other in every moment of freedom, because sharing their lives with each other feels natural now.

Louis usually comes over to Harry’s room before he has to work, because the bar where he works is close to Harry’s place anyway. Sometimes Harry comes along, sits at the bar with a beer, trying not to stare at the cute bartender too obviously.

(It’s difficult. Last time Fiona came along she let out an exasperated _dunno why I’m here when you only want to ogle your boy_. He had apologised, and had tried to focus on her story about a boy she liked. Louis had been in the corner of his eyes.)

They spend most Saturdays together too, usually reading or walking through the park. The only thing stopping them from spending the whole day together is the fact that Louis works in the morning as well as the evening, and they have other friends that need tending to.

Harry meets Liam and Steve on a warm Friday afternoon, when Louis has been jumping around excitedly for a whole week at the idea of finally being able to play footie with four instead of three. Harry doesn’t dare telling him that what he does is more _stumbling on the grass trying to not trip over the football_ than actual footie. Ten minutes into the game and Louis lets out an exasperated sigh when Harry misses the ball for the fourth time, but he gives Harry a kiss anyway.

Louis officially meets Nick and the rest of the clique at a party that Harry doesn’t really want to go to. Only Nick’s _it’s been a month, Harry, we need to check out your boy at_ some _point,_ had convinced him. Not that them meeting had been easy. As expected, Nick had been a bit too wary and defensive, and Louis had overcompensated by being _loud_. It had taken an hour before Nick had learned that it was all bark and no bite, and the ice had been broken when Steve had joked about a lecturer that they all disliked.

When they finally do go on their museum date, it’s one of the rare Sundays that they don’t have to work on an essay and Louis isn’t too tired from work the night before.

They set off early and buy cheap train tickets. Entry to the museum itself is free, since they’re students, which eases Louis’ mind a little.

It’s not a big museum, by all means. Harry’s been to many bigger ones before, has seen Monet and Vermeer and Picasso. All this one has is a single Van Gogh and some works of Cézanne, which Harry likes well enough, but isn’t sure Louis can appreciate.

Thankfully, there are some modern exhibitions as well, which is always fun. That is to say, it’s fun to see Louis’ astonished face when he looks at something that can only be described as a painting of an [egg](https://www.artsy.net/artwork/simon-bill-hello-louise) with green shards in it.

“It’s not even pretty!” he exclaims when he sees a brightly coloured [sculpture](https://www.artsy.net/artwork/keith-wilson-podium) that’s somewhat dystopian-looking.

Harry laughs, and gives Louis’ waist a soft squeeze where his hand is resting. “It doesn’t have to be pretty, Lou. It has to make you _feel_ something.”

“Well, it’s making me feel hopeless, if this is what art has come down to.”

“You must be one of those people who say that their little sister can paint exactly like Karel Appel,” Harry says, jokingly. “Open your mind, baby. Someone has created this godawful thing and called it _art_ , isn’t that amazing?” he adds with a smile.

Louis giggles and gives him a peck on his cheek. “It _is_ amazing, all of the mad things people can create.”

Everything turns a bit dark when they enter one of the newer exhibitions. The first room is packed with people, and it’s almost impossible to see the paintings. Louis seems interested in them; they’re a bit more conventional, beautifully painted cityscapes of old England, bright, fresh, breath-taking.

Harry can’t focus on them.

He feels a bit uncomfortable— no, he feels _very_ uncomfortable, people pushing against him left and right, an elderly woman staring at where his hand is linked with Louis’, two young boys bumping into his legs and giggling something about Harry’s boots when they run away.

He can’t help it; he’s scared. He feels himself closing in on himself, grasping Louis’ hand more tightly and not looking at the paintings anymore. All he can focus on is the way he stands, the way other people look at him, and judge him, and hate him. Like there are a thousand eyes burning on his back, he feels his skin crawling, feels the sweat under his arms.

For some reason, it’s the girls laughing in the corner of the room that get to him the most. They’re exactly like the girls in school that used to look at him disapprovingly when he tried to fit in with the rest of the boys. Their eyes saying _why are you even trying? Nobody cares about a boy like_ you.

It’s too much, all of it, so he pulls Louis towards him and asks him, quietly, if they can please get out of there.

Louis looks up at him, surprised, and seems to realise that Harry is serious when he sees the intensity in his eyes. “Are you okay?” he hears Louis ask, and Harry doesn’t know. Is he okay? All he can focus on is the people, and his awkward body, and the room, and he just wants to get out. He just wants to go.

Outside, on the terrace in front of the museum, it’s quiet. The sun is out again but most of the chairs are wet, so they cross the road to the park where Louis pulls off his jacket and puts it on the grass for them to sit on. Harry does so, gratefully. He only notices he’s shaking when he lets go of Louis’ hands and clasps his arms around his middle.

“Can I touch you?” Louis asks, and Harry nods.

Two strong arms wrap around his body, pull him closer until their chests are breathing together. _In and out_ , Harry thinks. He tries to focus on the air coming and going in his lungs, knows that it will help him get his mind off of what is happening in his head right now, but it’s hard. It’s hard to focus on the calm when his head is racing.

They stay like that for what seems like ages, simply breathing. He closes his eyes and tries to stop himself from letting tears fall, because while Harry is used to weird things happening to his mind, it’s never been this bad. It’s not just the anxiety, he thinks, but also the shame of having to let Louis see him like this. There’s nothing sexy about a boy who gets a panic attack between modern artwork.

But Louis doesn’t say anything, and when Harry opens his eyes again he doesn’t seem angry. He gives a watery smile, which Harry reciprocates.

“You got me a little bit scared there, Styles. I wasn’t sure what to do.”

“It’s okay,” he whispers back. “What you did was perfect, ‘m sorry you had to see that.”

Louis shakes his head and pulls Harry closer. The grass is so bright and green under Harry’s fingertips; it almost doesn’t feel like it’s really the end of October. But the leaves are yellow, and the sun has to try hard to beat the rain.

“It’s not something you have to apologise for. Or feel ashamed about. I know a lot of people struggle with anxiety.”

Harry nods. “It happens sometimes. I could go days without it. Sometimes only crowded rooms are a bit too much, but then there are days when even going to the shops is too much, when walking down the street feels like my personal hell. I could spend endless days in my room just because opening the front door feels impossible.”

Louis doesn’t ask more. He nods against Harry’s shoulder and together they watch the leaves falling from the trees.

 

. . .

 

They’re in a lecture when Harry gives him the envelope.

The professor is talking about something related to Byron and even for this course, it’s spectacularly boring. It took Harry only two minutes to lean back in his seat, drop his pen on his desk and to start playing with Louis’ fingers instead. It’s just that Louis has nice fingers, that’s all.

Louis smiles at him, is probably just as bored as Harry is. They play some thumb war until Harry decides he’s lost enough times in a row, and he opts for softly stroking the back of Louis’ hand with his thumb instead.

Harry’s pretending that he isn’t nervous, but he really is.

He’s worked on the letter for too long. Mere weeks after meeting Louis the idea had started to form, something stupid that he had thought about but never actually imagined himself doing. It took an hour of staring at the paper before he could even put the first word down, and after that three drafts were thrown away.

When he had finally finished something he felt somewhat confident about, he had let out a long sigh of relief. He knows that instead of writing a letter he could’ve just told the boy how he feels, but that’s not really Harry’s style. He’d be too anxious and he’s a writer after all.

Louis doesn’t seem to suspect a thing, even when he must feel that Harry’s palms are starting to get clammy. He can’t help it — he’s scared to death. The night before had been spent in agony, lying awake coming up with multiple ways in which giving Louis his letter could end up in a broken heart. Around three in the morning he had decided that maybe it would be better to not give the letter anyway, because surely there was no way that it would end well. He had cried a little, and had fallen asleep clutching his pillow.

In the morning, all his worries had vanished when he had woken up to a single text message from Louis, _good morning sunshine_ , with a picture of his pretty sleepy head attached. He _had_ to give Louis the letter.

So he does, in the middle of a lecture.

Louis looks mildly surprised when Harry pushes the envelope in his hands, but doesn’t comment when Harry mouths “open it.” He’s probably used to Harry’s antics by now. He raises his eyebrows slightly when he sees that Harry’s used purple ink, and looks up briefly into the green of Harry’s eyes to make sure that he’s supposed to read it now.

When Harry nods, Louis starts to read.

_Louis —_

_Watch me waking up with the maddest hair. Watch me go to sleep with the strangest socks on._

_There once was a boy who lived his simple life. Grew up, grew unhappy, felt himself decaying before he was done growing. Even the most exquisite flower will die without water. You — the rain. Water that doesn’t drown you, but swallows you whole and takes you to wonderful places._

_You know many things about me. You know the way my face looks froggy when I write a poem. You know the way I can curse when I cannot find the right word. You know how sloppy my handwriting gets when I’ve been writing for too long, and you know how quiet I get when I’ve finished a poem._

_What you don’t know is that every time you catch me staring at you, I’m marvelling at the fact that for all the words in the world there isn’t a single one good enough to capture you. You’re more than just beautiful, more than just kind, more than just loyal, more than just a dream. In some strange way you are my biggest nightmare — I, who wish to capture the world in words, and unable to capture you._

_Many poets have tried to explain this to me: the way your heart opens when you fall in love. None of them could have explained it better than you._

_Will you let me love you forever — let me call you mine?_

_Because I am yours._

_— Harry_

Louis doesn’t look up when his eyes have reached the end of the page. For a second, Harry is _sure_ that he has ruined it all. Maybe his words were too weird, too poetic, not to the point. Maybe Louis didn’t understand? Or maybe Louis _did_ understand, but doesn’t know how to tell Harry that he doesn’t want him, that he’d rather have nothing than have Harry, that—

The lecture is ending. People are standing up around them, but Louis still doesn’t move. There’s soft talking from the other students, a sneeze from the lecturer, and none of them know that Harry has just opened all of his heart for Louis to see.

Someone turns the lights off. In the glimmer of the projector, Harry sees a tear slowly making its way down Louis’ cheek. He takes a deep breath, reaches out with his hand to softly wipe it away.

When Louis looks up, _finally_ , he’s full on crying, and _nodding_ his head. “Of course, Harry,” he chokes out, “of course, of course, of course I’ll be yours.”

More tears make their way down his soft cheeks, but they must be tears of happiness because he’s _smiling_ , smiling so hard, eyes crinkling and Harry is so _relieved_ and _happy_ and his smile is so bright that it almost hurts, a joy so great that he can barely understand it.

“You want to be my boyfriend?” he asks, just to make sure.

“Only if you want to be mine.”

Their kiss tastes like happiness. Harry doesn’t know for how long their lips stay connected, how many minutes pass by while he softly bites Louis’ lip, while Louis shivers when he pushes his tongue inside. It feels like too long and not long enough.

Pulling back feels like a mission impossible. Harry pecks Louis’ lips (swollen, _shiny_ ) for a last time before he rests his forehead against his boyfriend’s.

His _boyfriend’s_. The word feels like magic when Harry whispers it.

“I cannot believe you asked me to go steady during a _lecture_ , you utter idiot,” is what Louis says when they’ve both calmed down. Harry doesn’t have to search for the fondness in Louis’ eyes — it’s right there on his face.

Harry looks down sheepishly and shrugs. “Sorry. I was a bit too scared to ask you in another way.”

“I know, I know. And I’m so glad you wrote this for me. I’m so endlessly grateful for you.”

Minutes fly by when they kiss again, and again, and again. It makes Harry’s heart twist and twirl. It’s allowed now, Harry thinks. He’s allowed to feel all sorts of mad things when he thinks about Louis. They’re boyfriends now, after all.

. . .

 

Louis’ bed is small, but they manage to squeeze both of them onto it.

There’s not much to Louis’ room apart from a wooden desk and a small closet. He shares a bathroom and kitchen with the rest of the flat, which consists of nine other people. It makes Harry sad, when he thinks about it for too long. Especially because he knows how thin the walls are, how much Louis is bothered by his one neighbour who has loud conversations on Skype all day long, and his other neighbour who smokes so much weed that the smell has started to infiltrate Louis’ room as well. It’s why he spends most of his time reading at the library, and it’s why they’ve spent most of their time together in Harry’s flat.

Right now, one of Louis’ flatmates is playing some sort of game with a mate, screaming curses every so often. There’s the far-off sound of a bass playing through the walls and someone is making dinner in the kitchen. Because Louis’ room is cold anyway, they’ve crawled under the duvet, faces pressed together in the dark.

After getting his first kiss in the streets, they’ve hardly spent five minutes without giving each other at least a soft peck. They’re like a couple of teenagers, spending hours kissing under the flowery duvet, legs and fingers tangling together.

One time, on the way home from a lecture, Harry had quietly asked if he’d been alright. At kissing, that is. If it wasn’t disappointing to Louis, who, they both know, has so much more experience. Near the front door, Louis had pressed Harry against the wall. Had told him to stop worrying, because he was wonderful, and that kissing him felt like kissing an angel.

During kiss number eight, Louis moves his arm lower so that he’s touching Harry’s hip. It sends a little shock through his body. It’s unconscious, but he’s sure that Louis noticed, because he pulls back and looks Harry in the eyes.

He must see something there, Harry’s sure. Something of the fear, the _I’m not ready_ written in tiny letters on the green of his eyes.

They stay like that for a bit, not kissing but simply looking, eyes wandering over each other’s faces, enjoying each other quietly.

When Louis breaks the silence, he whispers and his voice breaks.

“I feel like normally this would be the time in a relationship to move things further, you know? Me blowing you and you having your whole first-time-touching-another-dick moment. But we’re different, aren’t we? We don’t do things because we’re expected to do them.”

He’s quiet for a second before he moves on. “I love just being like this. Taking things slow. Want to take my time with you, you know?”

Harry knows. He thinks back to that magic moment, all those weeks ago, sitting on the floor of his room and feeling like crying because he hadn’t had any of those experiences that seemed so normal to other people his age. And then Louis’ words, _there no need to hurry; every river flows at its own pace_.

“I guess I’m a slow river,” he says.

Louis smiles knowingly, kisses him again. His hand strays upwards, and Harry’s nerves disappear.

“You’re a slow river.”

The kisses aren’t heated, but they’re nice.

They’re comfortable. Like taking a long journey, and then finally coming home.

 

. . .

 

Harry passes a bottle of beer to Nick and gets some more orange juice for himself. It’s there for the vodka, he knows, but he doesn’t add any, because he doesn’t feel like drinking. Not today.

The party they’re at is pretty laid-back. With Paolo Nutini playing in the background, people are laughing on the sofas and some have even taken place on the floor, watching a Disney film. Harry’s taken seat on the floor himself, leaning against the couch where Louis is sitting next to Fiona.

They’re a good team, Louis and Fiona. Both down to earth and full of quick wit. He’d be jealous if he didn’t know for sure that Louis is only into guys. Or, specifically, into _Harry_ , being his boyfriend and all.

His feet are leaning against Nick’s thigh, and they’re both sort of listening to the guy across the room who’s telling a girl about his love for Macklemore. It’s fascinating. He’s high, probably, because Harry has seen some weed making the rounds. Going by the taste of Louis’ mouth when he kissed him, Lou had probably smoked some too.

Even without smoking himself, Harry feels floaty and calm. It’s the first time in a while that he feels truly at ease in a crowded room. He’s not sure if it’s the leftover smoke from other people’s weed that makes his heart feel at ease, or the fact that Louis’ thighs are pressed against him where he leans back between his boyfriend’s legs. They had snogged for a bit in bed, earlier. Louis had asked once, twice, if Harry genuinely wanted to go, repeating endlessly that _it’s okay if you’d rather stay at home, H, we could watch a rom-com if you want?_ It makes Harry’s heart ache a little, how well Louis knows him.

The best part (or worst, if you will) is that he thinks Louis genuinely wouldn’t have minded staying home with Harry, no matter how much he wanted to go the party.

But Nick is here, and Fiona and Liam and Steve, and Harry feels comfortable, even when the rest of the room is filled with people he’s never seen before.

He feels a soft hand in his hair. Louis. When he tilts his head back and rests it onto the sofa, his eyes meet Louis’ fond ones. “Hey, love,” he says. The smile that it brings to Harry’s face is probably too bright to be appropriate, but he doesn’t really mind. This is what being around Louis does to him, he guesses. Turns him into a lovesick fool. He adores it.

“Hiya.” He leans further into Louis’ hand, which starts petting his hair more avidly. He’s about to hop up into Louis’ lap when Steve plops down onto the armrest and swings a drunken arm around Harry’s boyfriend.

“Heeeey Lou,” he cheers, and plants a wet kiss onto his cheek. Harry turns around a little and watches the interaction with squinted eyes, but he can’t find it in himself to truly be bothered by it. Everyone knows what a tipsy Steve is like, and Louis is just the same. Harry’s seen the videos: Steve and Louis drunk, in the middle of the dance floor in some obscure club, hugging and hanging around each other as if they’re long-lost brothers. They might well be, with how protective of Louis Steve has proven himself to be.

“How are the Christmas plans coming along?” Steve continues. He doesn’t seem to notice Louis’ frown when he adds, “did you manage to get some money for train tickets or will you be walking to good old Doncaster?” He laughs at his own joke and the boy in his arms chuckles along. Harry watches curiously at the way his face contorts, the tightness he manages to hide inside a bright smile.

“Trains are for royalty, Steve. Us plebeians will have to use our legs, I’m afraid,” he jokes, but the strain in his voice makes the joke fall flat. Even Steve seems to sober up somewhat. He gives Louis’ arm a soft squeeze and pulls him closer to his body.

“I’m sorry to hear that, man. Are you sure there’s no way your Mum can send you some money for tickets? Surely she wants you there for the holidays?”

“Yeah.” He sighs. “She wants to, but the car broke down last month and they needed to get that fixed, and then we had to pay for the twins’ schoolbooks... It’s just not happening this year.”

Steve’s frown deepens and he sounds truly upset when he says, “I’d give you some money, but…”

“Nah, that’s okay,” Louis grimaces.

It’s a bit more quiet once Steve leaves to get another drink. Even Nick doesn’t seem sure about what to say, biting his lip and sneaking worried glances between Harry and Louis.

Louis’ hand is still buried deep into Harry’s hair. He doesn’t seem to notice that he’s started to scratch harder, fingernails digging into Harry’s scalp and leaving ghostly tingles behind. It doesn’t hurt, or not that much that Harry doesn’t like it, but he turns his head anyway, presses his face into Louis’ thighs and placing a soft kiss against the denim.

He regrets being sober, now. He craves alcohol to dull the sharp ache in his chest. Even though he and Louis have talked about their respective Christmas plans already, and Harry already knew that Louis wouldn’t be able to afford a train ticket, it still makes him sad to his core. It just isn’t right, he thinks. It isn’t right that someone who works so hard, who fights for good grades and exhausts himself with two jobs, who devotes so much of his heart to his family and still sends them money every month — that someone like him can’t spend the most precious days of the year with them.

He had cried, when Louis told him. He had honest to God _cried_ , and grabbed Louis’ shirt and _begged_ him to let Harry buy his train tickets for him.

(Even though they both knew that Harry probably couldn’t afford the tickets either. He has some money in a savings account, sure, but he hasn’t paid all of his tuition fees yet, and with no job, he needed to save every penny he could.)

Louis had shaken his head, and had said “I love you, and I appreciate your offer, but it is what it is.”

It _hurt_ , it hurt like _hell_ to see the resignation in Louis’ eyes.

It still hurts, Harry thinks when he wraps his hand around Louis’ exposed ankle. It’s not fair.

Nick takes another gulp of his beer and puts the bottle down. He toys with the label on the bottleneck, the green of Heineken looking almost emerald in the dimly lit room. He opens his mouth as if about to say something, but closes it again with a frown.

“Beware, Nick’s got his thinking face on,” Fiona mumbles before standing up and joining a more lively group of people in the corner of the room.

The three of them watch her leave, watch a boy in the group wrap an arm around her, watch them all shuffle awkwardly to the song that’s playing. The quality of music has gone downhill a bit when Nick had stopped DJing, but there are still some brave people throwing around shameless moves on the makeshift dance floor.

From the corner of his eye, Harry sees Nick scratch his head before coughing to get their attention. “Maybe you could sell some stuff to raise money?” he says hesitantly. His eyes flicker between Harry and Louis, up and down, until he rests them on where his hands are clenched in his lap. “I could help you sell some of my old vinyl, maybe? It’s not much but I just— I feel so shit knowing that you’ll be on campus alone when it’s Christmas. And your _birthday_.”

“Thanks Nick, I really appreciate that,” Louis says and smiles down at him, and — well, Harry might be mistaken, because they’re in a dimly lit room after all, but it almost seems like Louis has tears in his eyes. Not tears of sadness though, but fond tears, as if he can’t believe that people care so much about his problems.

It makes Harry’s heart ache so much more, because his boy, his beautiful _beautiful_ boy, who has given Harry so much love, doesn’t even seem to realise how much other people love _him_ too. How much they appreciate him always being there for other people, his concern whenever someone has a problem, his sheer _devotion_ to always doing whatever he can to help others.

 _He deserves all the good things in the world_ , Harry thinks to himself, and promises right there and then that he will get Louis home for Christmas. Whatever it takes.

 

. . .

 

Harry’s right in the middle of a call to the woman from the publishing company when he gets Louis’ text. They’re going over the final details: from the use of fonts to the person who’ll design the cover.

It’s a bit mad, Harry thinks, that he seriously talking to someone who wants to publish his poems. People are going to pay money just to read what he wrote. It feels like the maddest thing on earth.

When he says goodbye to her and has scribbled down the date for their last appointment, he has to sit down for a second. He’s afraid he’ll spill everything to Louis the moment he picks up his phone, just because he’s so damn _excited_ , but he promised himself that he would keep it a surprise for Louis.

He decides to make himself a fancy sandwich to distract his mind. Puts the bread with cheese in the oven while he slices tomatoes and adds some lettuce. He even eats it in the kitchen, not looking at his phone but at the people on the streets.

When he finally picks up his phone, he frowns when he sees Louis’ text.

He hesitates.

His excitement is gone within seconds and replaced by dread.

He had sort of expected to question to come, one day. And he’s asked himself the same thing many times. Psychoanalysing himself on lonely days spent inside is not something foreign to him. But even after all these years, the answer doesn’t get any easier.

The thing is — he doesn’t know. He doesn’t know why sometimes the people who make him happy make him feel exhausted instead. He doesn’t know why he needs, _craves_ , days on his own, days in bed, days barely lived. He _doesn’t know_ why sometimes he feels like all of his friends deserve better than him.

He knows it’s not rational, but still — sometimes it feels like the truth.

He picks up his phone again. Types a sentence, deletes it, and deletes the next two sentences he types. It’s a bit painful, but he wants Louis to know. He wants Louis to understand.

So he tries writing it again and again, until finally he presses _send_ and brings his hand down to his lap. He’s exhausted, all of a sudden.

He reads it over one more time as the blue bar slowly fills, and the _whoosh_ indicates that it’s out there. No way of crawling back now.

 

_Honestly, I don’t know. I guess it gets really bad sometimes when I feel like there’s something about me that’s different, something that’s wrong, you know? And when I’m outside, it feels like everyone sees that there’s something wrong with me, so they keep staring at me like I’m a weird animal or something. And I don’t even know what it is that is wrong about me, I don’t know what it is that they’re thinking, I just know that it’s bad. They all hate me for a reason that I don’t even know_

_It feels like I’m the only one in the world who’s left out because I’m different_

_It’s probably the being queer thing. Not like I hate myself for not being straight, but I’m sure it was traumatic in many ways. Being young and being afraid of your own identity. Made me feel a bit ashamed about being alive sometimes_

When he gets out of the shower, Louis hasn’t responded yet. He tells himself it doesn’t hurt, but he can feel the fear crawling back up his spine.

He’s just about to pull on his favourite hoodie and crawl back into bed when there’s a knock on his door. When he opens it, it’s Louis. He’s panting, has clearly been running. “Hey, love,” he says with a smile. He seems hesitant, steps inside slowly as if the gauge Harry’s emotional state.

When Harry opens his arms, he stumbles into the room and falls down into Harry’s hug. “Thought it probably wouldn’t be the best conversation to have via text, so I came over. Hope that’s okay,” he mumbles. When he looks Harry up and down his eyes linger somewhere between Harry’s nips. “Hope I didn’t interrupt anything,” he adds.

Harry blushes and pulls a shirt over his head. “Just took a shower,” he muffles through the fabric. It gets stuck, because of course it does, and Louis has to help him pull it down over his stomach. It would be embarrassing if it weren’t for the slight flush on Louis’ cheeks when he pats Harry’s stomach one last time.

It’s the perfect opportunity for kissing Louis senseless, so that’s what Harry does. Pulling his t-shirt on was probably useless, Harry thinks, because Louis’ hands are crawling under it and roaming over his naked back. With a wicked smirk on his face, Harry pushes Louis back until he’s falling gracefully onto Harry’s bed, pulling Harry with him.

It all feels very big and exciting, all of a sudden, having Louis under him, flushed and breathless from running over here (towards _Harry_ ) and kissing heatedly. It’s the furthest they’ve ever gone. Harry isn’t surprised when he feels a hardness similar to his own against his hip.

“Do you want to?” he asks, and puts a hand where Louis is pressing against him. He’s having the whole first-time-touching-another-dick moment, he thinks in the back of his mind, but it doesn’t feel so scary anymore. Instead, it feels exciting, and new, and _wonderful_.

“I came here to talk about those heavy texts you sent me,” Louis pants, but doesn’t resist when Harry starts rubbing him.

“We can always talk later.”

“Yeah.”

And with that, all hopes of normal conversation are lost.

Harry manages to get open Louis’ trousers first without pulling his gaze away from the blue of Louis’ eyes. “Fuck,” he says, eloquent as ever. It’s just that Louis’ dick feels quite wonderful under his hand. He sort of wants to get his mouth on him, even though that’s probably a bit much for a first time. Instead, he opens Louis’ trousers further and gracelessly pulls his pants down.

Yeah, it is a little weird, when he finally gets to the moment that he’s been thinking about for ages. Something that once seemed so strange, so unachievable — getting a beautiful boy under him, being allowed to kiss him and make love to him. He never could imagine himself touching someone like this without the fear of doing something _wrong_ , but now it just feels like something beautiful, a secret that’s only for him and Louis to share.

He feels confident, even, when Louis moans at the soft kiss that he places to where Louis’ dick is poking out of his underwear.

“Fuck,” Louis groans. Their eyes lock again when Harry looks up, tongue out and softly licking the place where Louis needs it most. He has no clue what he’s doing, but he can see the pleasure shine blue when he closes his lips around the crown of Louis’ cock, and he sucks softly.

He’s not stupid; he knows he’s got the perfect lips for this. So he gets to work, trying to do what he’s seen in porn and read on the internet, trying to take Louis as deep as he can and wrapping a hand around what he cannot reach. His tongue toys a little bit with Louis’ slit, because that seems to really get him going, and when he swallows more of him he has to stop Louis from bucking up too much.

It’s so hot. Harry has to reach one hand down to take the pressure off of his dick, and he blesses himself for pulling on joggers instead of skinnies for once. He moans and looks up again.

When their eyes lock Louis moans too. “You are a _dream_ , Harry Styles. Come here,” and pulls Harry off his dick and towards his mouth. They kiss, and kiss, and kiss, until Louis finally manages to pull down Harry’s pants enough to grab his dick too. Harry breaks the kiss with his gasp and bites down on Louis’ arm to stop himself from coming on the spot.

“Fuck,” he moans.

They shift and one of Louis’ small hands wraps around both of their cocks while they kiss. It’s hopeless, trying to hold off his orgasm when there’s such beautiful boy underneath him, so he gives in.

“I’m gonna come, Lou,” he pants into the boy’s mouth. He can feel him smile against his mouth, and then he lets go.

White hot bliss all over his body, legs and arms trembling where he is holding himself up. Vaguely, he hears Louis moaning too, and when he opens his eyes he sees Louis’ face twisted up in pleasure. Harry’s heart aches. He presses their cheeks together when Louis slowly stops stroking, and then he collapses.

Jesus.

They lay together, panting, smiling.

When they’re both breathing normally again they move a bit, wrapping their legs around each other’s under the duvet, noses pressed together.

Harry's not even that self-conscious anymore, but just to be sure he asks, “was that okay?”

Louis merely laughs. “Was that _okay_? Boy, I feel like I’m still floating. Are you sure that you’re fully human, Harry Styles?”

“Hmm, I might not be.” They both laugh, and Louis presses a soft kiss to Harry’s forehead. “But really,” he whispers, “I thought that was great. Was it okay for you too?”

Harry nods. “Yeah.”

Blue meets green. Harry lets out a happy sigh and moves his hand to cup Louis’ cheek. When he frowns Louis raises his eyebrows questioningly.

“I know this sounds stupid,” Harry grumbles, “but I kind of hate that you have blue eyes. All the good poetic descriptions of blue eyes have already been written, and yet none of them is good enough to describe the beauty of yours. There’s no such blue.”

Louis laughs and rolls his eyes, but his smile is soft.

“I can’t believe my boyfriend is such a sap,” he says, and smiles even more. “I can’t believe I’m so lucky.”

They hold each other until they fall asleep.

 

. . .

 

It’s one of those days again.

Or, well, it’s actually the third day, but Harry is trying not to think about that.

It had been a busy week. A meeting with his publisher, which had gone well, but had been exhausting to the point of despair. Then, two essays that needed polishing and an online test that he really hadn’t been prepared for. On top of it all he had gotten a call from home about buying train tickets for Christmas, which had stressed him out instead of making him happy. It had all gotten too much on Wednesday, when one of his flatmates had made a biting comment about his cooking skills.

He hadn’t seen anyone on Thursday. Sent Louis a text that he needed to finish reading a book for class (he didn’t) and then turned off his phone. During the rest of the day, being exhausted turned into being low, so low — sitting under his desk with his duvet wrapped around him, playing a series on his laptop that he wasn’t really watching.

On Friday he turned on his phone to tell Louis he wouldn’t come to the lecture. He didn’t bother with an excuse. He had a text from Nick about some party, which he ignored, and two texts from Sarah because he hadn’t responded to her texts in a while. Just thinking about it makes him want to crawl back in bed, to cry.

He doesn’t cry, but it’s a close call. His phone keeps lighting up with Instagram notifications, pictures of his friends at the party that he ditched, and it all feels like hell. It’s strange, that he himself is the one who chose not to go, and yet being alone in his room makes him feel like none of his friends really like him after all. Like they just put up with him because they have to. He knows, he _knows_ , that none of it is rational and that none of it is true. It doesn’t help, however, and he falls asleep with his phone clutched in his hand and silent tears streaming down his cheeks.

On the third day, things change.

He wakes up with a heavy heart, which grows even heavier when he doesn’t see a single text from his friends. Well, there are the ones he got from Louis last night, which went from loving to concerned in under an hour. Harry hadn’t had the energy to respond to a single one of them, even though he probably should have, after Louis’ _please, Harry, just tell me you’re okay._ He knows it’s stupid, but he just can’t. Typing out two simple words feels like too much for him.

So when he doesn’t see a new text at 11 am on Saturday, he puts his phone into flight mode and rereads all of the texts he didn’t respond to. There are still some unanswered texts from two weeks ago, which he looks at with shame in his heart. None of it makes him feel better, so he puts his phone away and climbs out of bed. He has to hold himself against the wall so that he doesn’t topple over — his head is swimming from too much sleep.

He listens at the door for a minute, and when he’s sure that none of his flatmates are in the kitchen he unlocks the door and tiptoes through the empty hallway. In the kitchen, the curtains are drawn (why? he didn’t hear them having a party last night) and when he opens them the sun is too bright in his eyes. He doesn’t move away, but closes his eyes and simply breathes for a minute or two. He makes himself a cup of coffee that’s too strong and finds some old cereal in one of his cupboards. It’s a bit of a miracle that none of his flatmates have stolen it, he thinks, when he pours some into a clean bowl.

It’s quiet enough that he doesn’t feel like he has to retreat to his room, so he sits down on one of the sofas and slowly brings the first spoonful to his mouth. Outside the sun is drying the wet pavement; he sees a woman with a dog slipping on a pile of leaves. He feels ever so lonely, in his self-created isolation.

He thinks briefly about what the rest of the day will be like. Probably some idle reading, scrolling through social media and having a lazy wank. It’s depressing, but still, it feels like a whole mountain to climb. Even finishing his cereal and chewing on the last bits feels like an obstacle.

He puts his bowl into the sink and makes himself another cup of coffee. More milk this time, because having his brain go into overdrive because of caffeine is something he doesn’t need. He takes it with him and almost burns his hand on the hot liquid when he tries to open the door to his room. A couple of drops of coffee spill onto his duvet as he slips under it, but he can’t be bothered to care. He’ll clean it someday. Maybe.

Two hours later, when the tears from his latest cry are drying up again, there’s a knock on his door. He goes still.

He prays to every single God that he locked his door when he came back from the kitchen, but he knows he didn’t. Never thought about it. Most of the time his flatmates respect his privacy when he doesn’t answer the door, but it’s happened more than once that on a wild Saturday night they would try to open the door and scream and laugh when they realised that Harry had locked himself up inside. He feels like that’s fairly reasonable— that he doesn’t want drunk people in his room when he’s in bed. He locks his door every night.

But not this morning. He didn’t think that anyone was even at home, and hadn’t heard the front door downstairs. So he stays still, prays for the stranger to go away.

They don’t go away.

There’s another knock, and two minutes of tense silence. Then, the door creaks when it’s opened.

It’s Louis.

Louis, wearing a soft sweater and skinnies that hug his legs tightly. There’s a soft beanie over his head and his hands are swallowed up by his sleeves. He’s shivering a little.

He seems nervous as he steps into the room, closing the door softly behind him and keeping his eyes on the bed, where Harry’s head pokes up from under the duvet. The way he walks — like approaching a wild animal, hurts Harry’s heart.

“Hey Haz,” Louis whispers. “You alright?”

Harry doesn’t say anything back, shakes his head, and holds out his hand towards Louis, beckoning him closer.

Louis does come closer, slowly. He puts his bag on the floor and discards his coat; puts it somewhere on the floor near where the most of Harry’s discarded clothes are. He climbs on to the bed and settles down next to Harry.

They’re quiet for a long time. Holding hands, Louis’ thumb rubbing over the palm of Harry’s hand, breaths syncing.

“I’m sorry,” Harry whispers eventually. It’s too quiet in the dark room, blinds still closed and holding off the light. He can barely see Louis’ eyes as they flicker over his face, searching for — something, anything.

“There’s nothing to be sorry for. If anything, _I_ should be sorry for not stopping by earlier. Had a bit of a problem with my last essay, so…” Louis trails off. Harry can see him closing his eyes, and watches as Louis swallows.

“Wasn’t sure what to do. Nick told me a bit about it — that you disappear in your own head sometimes. That you stop responding to texts for a couple of days. I didn’t want to just barge in and demand you go outside, when maybe you needed some time alone.”

“It’s okay. I would never mind you barging in.”

Louis shakes his head. “Don’t say that. Everyone needs space once every so often. I guess it’s just hard to find the balance between needing space and isolating yourself.” He sighs. “I don’t know.”

Harry doesn’t really know either, but it’s okay. He squeezes Louis’ hand and curls into him. Louis’ hair is soft as ever against his cheek. He can feel him breathing against his neck and it makes his heart swell, that this boy is here for him now. “Thank you,” he whispers, because he doesn’t know what else to say.

They fall asleep together.

In the dark room, Harry’s eyes start to close and he can’t keep himself from floating away. He doesn’t mind, not this time, not when Louis is in his arms and there is hope yet. It’s not like the heaviness in his chest has suddenly disappeared — it’s gotten worse, feeling shame at ignoring everyone he loves on top of everything, but at least there’s someone at his side know. He just hopes Louis doesn’t leave.

They nap for an hour or so. It’s not a deep sleep. Harry can feel Louis’ hand rubbing his back until he falls away into slumber, and he’s sure that Louis is sleeping too.

When he wakes up again, Louis has opened the blinds and the light from outside is warming the thick air in his room.

“You awake, baby?” he asks, and Harry nods.

“How about this: you take a shower and then we head out for some late lunch? I need to buy a book at the bookshop so maybe we can go together? Maybe go to a film afterward?” He seems hopeful, painfully so. So Harry nods, let’s himself have another cry in the shower, and doesn’t try to shield his body from Louis when he gets dressed.

He feels a bit awful in his skinnies, uncomfortable, for some reason. He hesitates for a second or two before he chooses a soft long-sleeved shirt and a headscarf to tame his drying curls.

They head out together, and if Harry squeezes Louis’ hand a little too hard, he doesn’t comment on it. He’s still shaking during lunch, which makes eating soup a little bit awkward, but it gets better when Louis trades places with him so he’s hidden from anyone’s view.

Things get easier at the bookshop, where they hide between the shelves and giggle at the romance section. Louis gets the book he needs and buys a volume of Rilke for Harry. They don’t go to the cinema, but settle down at the park. They watch the birds; Louis listens to Harry reading one of the poems; a little girl shoots a football towards them and Louis shoots it back.

They end up playing a game together with her and her friends. Harry doesn’t feel so lonely anymore.

 

. . .

 

Sometimes Harry lets himself fantasise about having actual sex with Louis. The whole ‘dick in your ass’ thing. Not when he’s wanking or anything, but objectively, simply wondering what it would be like to share something like that.

It’s not like he still thinks of himself as a virgin, because he doesn’t. Him and Louis have shared enough orgasms now that he doesn’t think the term applies to him anymore. But they haven’t been _inside_ each other yet.

They have talked about it. Not just about having sex together, although they both know that they want to, eventually. Harry’s come more than once to Louis’ hand on his dick and him whispering _I can’t wait until you’re inside of me_ into his ear. They’ve talked extensively about blowjobs (the magic of Harry’s lips), about handjobs (Louis’ hands when they wrap around him _just right_ ) and even the ins and outs of BDSM (“No, Harry, real life BDSM is nothing like 50 Shades.” “How do _you_ know?”).

But they’ve never had actual sex.

Harry doesn’t mind. Likes it even, likes that it’s still something exciting (and slightly scary) to look forward to. It’s just that, well, he thought that when Louis said he wanted to take things slow, it meant waiting two weeks after Harry’s first blowjob to ask for _more_. Instead, it’s been more than two months that they’ve been together, and there’s been no sign that Louis is waiting for Harry to finally let him do more than sucking his dick. He doesn’t mind, but its — unusual.

And it’s just that he can’t really stop thinking about Louis’ sexual past. Louis is not a virgin, Harry knows. He’s not shy about having slept around either. But he isn’t really sure just _how much_ Louis has slept around. He doesn’t _care_ , per se, doesn’t think Louis is worth any less because he enjoys having casual sex, but he can’t stop thinking about how someone who’s used to having regular sex would get antsy after two months of only blowies.

Louis isn’t. Antsy, that is. Actually, he seems more than satisfied after each time that he and Harry get off.

Harry worries nonetheless. He wouldn’t be Harry Styles if he didn’t. It’s been in the back of his mind even more, recently. Simple thoughts of _will Louis leave if we don’t have sex soon_ , and _should I initiate things_ even when he doesn’t really want to. He wouldn’t want to do it just because he feels like he has to, but because it feels right in the moment.

So he waits.

It’s a cold Sunday when it happens. They had met up with Liam and Niall in the morning, went to the gym together and played Fifa until the late afternoon. When they had left, Harry and Louis moved back into Louis room, hanging around lazily with a film playing in the background.

Harry’s toying with his dick when Louis comes back into the room. When soft kisses had turned into hard groping Louis had pulled himself back with a murmur of “gotta go to the loo” and had left Harry with a smirk on his face.

Because Harry is Harry, he had become impatient. Scattering his clothes all over Louis’ room in his haste to get undressed, he’s comfortable on his back, dick hard.

He’s _so_ hard.

Louis looks impressed when he walks in, even though he’s seen Harry naked more than once. Harry watches him as he licks his lips and slowly starts to unbutton his shirt, throws his head back with a soft moan when he sees Louis’ tummy.

“God, baby,” Louis’ voice sounds wrecked already. In the flash of an eye his trousers are gone and he’s crawling slowly over to Harry’s chest. “Can’t wait to take a ride on that,” he says when he joins Harry’s hand around his dick.

Harry twists his face into the duvet to stifle his moans and his cock seem to become impossibly harder with every stroke that Louis gives. With a deep sigh he gives himself over to Louis and puts his hands over his head.

“Do you want to, darling? Do you want to put your dick inside me? Put it where it belongs?”

He takes a breath. His eyes lock on Louis’, which are dilated and seem cobalt blue in the grey of the afternoon. He looks stunning, beautiful, a dream that Harry never thought he would see after waking up. But Louis is there, on top of him, wanting to share that one thing with him, that one thing that seemed like such an impossible fantasy.

He releases his breath and nods. “Please.”

Reaching for the lube and pushing a slick finger against Louis’ hole feels like the most natural thing in the world. He doesn’t push in immediately, makes Louis wait for it while they kiss slowly. He rubs around his rim a little, which makes Louis moan obscenities in his ear.

“ _Please_ , Harry, I’m aching for it. Please please _please_.”

So Harry gives in. He slowly pushes his finger inside, watching Louis’ face as it contorts into a mixture of relief and straining pleasure. He may be a virgin, but he’s no stranger to some good fingering.

Fingering Louis is… more than he could ever ask for. It’s not just the small cries that he lets out when Harry puts another finger in, or the desperate pleas when Harry presses just right. It’s the way Louis’ thick thighs tremble where he’s clutching them around his body, the way he can feel the boy’s tummy flutter at every push of his fingers, the way he nips at Harry’s chin whenever he pulls his fingers back.

When he’s got three fingers nestled comfortably between Louis’ cheeks, it’s clear that the smaller boy is becoming impatient. His pleas for more fingers turn into a whispered _come on, Harry_. So Harry gives a soft peck to his nose and reaches over to the nightstand.

Being in Louis’ room thankfully means that they don’t need to worry about condoms. Harry’s got lube of his own, of course, but he’s never been brave enough to buy condoms. It seemed too eager, too desperate.

Louis has them in one of his drawers, Harry knows. He sort of knows how they work. In theory, at least, because he’s never really held one in his hands. He’s glad when it’s Louis who grabs one, unwraps it, and puts it over Harry’s dick with his mouth. Which feels — magical. “Practiced really hard on that,” he admits when he sees the astonishment in Harry’s eyes.

Harry laughs. “Of course you did,” he says, and pulls Louis up for a kiss.

“You still sure you want to do this?”

Harry nods. “Yeah. I’m glad we waited for as long as we did, but I’m ready for it now, I think. I really want to do this with you.”

Louis responds with a kiss and a slick hand around Harry’s cock. He’s not even sure if he will be able to hold it out long enough for Louis to actually sit on his dick, because merely looking at Louis’ fingers trailing from his dick to his balls makes him feel like coming on the spot.

It’s too much, and not nearly enough.

“I’m gonna ride you first, okay?” Louis whispers, and scoots forward a bit so Harry’s dick is nestled in between his soft cheeks.

Then, he pushes down and Harry’s dick slips in.

Even just having his tip inside Louis is more than Harry can ever bring down to words. He prides himself on knowing words, knowing how to work with them, knowing how to shape them into describing the most intricate beauty.

He has no words for the way Louis looks, perched on top of him, head thrown back in pleasure. Pleasure that _Harry_ is giving him, dick slipping deeper until he cannot go further.

It’s tight and warm and wet and oh so hot, and Harry moans so hard it almost hurts.

Louis stays still for a moment, clenching slightly around him and looking into his eyes. They both smile at the same time. Then Louis moves, upwards until his dick almost slips out, downwards until he can’t go any further.

“Fuck,” he groans, “fucking hell, Louis.”

“You feel so good, baby, so nice in me.”

“ _Fuck_.”

His hands travel slowly from Louis’ knees, to his straining thighs, upwards over his hips to settle on his waist. With every downwards movement of Louis’ body he squeezes, rubs his thumbs over the tan skin.

“Please touch me,” Louis whimpers, so Harry does. He pulls out all of the tricks he knows, trails his finger over Louis’ slit and rubs him harder when Louis moves his hips down more forcefully. His other hand reaches up to touch his soft nipples, which spring to life between his teasing fingers.

“Harry,” Louis whimpers again. He’s getting tired, falling down sloppily onto Harry’s hips. His hands are clutching onto Harry’s chest, nails leaving marks when he presses too hard. “Want me to fuck you good, sweetheart?” Harry asks, when he sees his thighs trembling. Louis barely has the time to nod before Harry is grabbing onto his waist tightly and turning them over, the body under him burying deep into the mattress as he starts moving his hips forcefully.

He can’t stop himself anymore. He doesn’t even know where to watch, eyes flitting between Louis’ face, scrunched up in pleasure, or Louis’ ass, clenching around his dick so beautifully.

He reaches for Louis’ dick again, so pretty and red where it’s laying on his stomach, and strokes him harder and harder, matching his thrusts.

It sounds breathless and wrecked when Louis whispers, “I’m going to come.” Two thrusts later, he does, and when he clenches down one last time, Harry comes too.

Harry’s not sure how he manages to pull out and get the condom off of him. He feels like he’s floating, holding Louis’ body close to him and wandering together through distant skies. He barely has the energy to kiss Louis, so he settles down against the panting boy underneath him.

Sometime later, Louis moves away to clean them both up. Harry’s dozing and it feels like less than a minute until he feels Louis return into his arms. He’s soft, and warm, and oh so beautiful. They move until they’re face to face again, Harry bringing up a hand to Louis’ cheek.

“Thank you,” he whispers. “Thank you for sharing this with me.”

He can feel Louis’ smile under his hand.

“You are a _dream_ , Harry Styles.”

They’re quiet for a moment, listening to the building around them. Someone is playing Belle & Sebastian loudly, which sounds nice in the still of the afternoon. There’s a thunderstorm coming, and the rain is already rushing against the window.

Harry takes a breath and holds it for too long. “Lou?” he says into the dark, and searches for the familiar blue.

“Hm?”

“Would it be a big cliché if I said I loved you? I swear it’s not a heat of the moment thing — I just really do love you. Very much.”

“Admitting love after sex? That really is a cliché, Harry Styles,” he giggles, “but I’ll overlook it. Just because I love you too.”

Harry stays over. In the middle of the night they watch the thunder flash together.

 

. . .

 

Harry prints the tickets at an obscure bookshop, because he doesn’t want to do it at the library. He’s sure that that’s where Louis is, because when he’d made some bad excuse about not being able to have lunch together Louis had shrugged and said he needed to do some reading before class anyway.

It feels a bit wrong, going behind his boyfriend’s back like this, even though it’s for a good cause.

He checks the time and date on the printed papers once more before folding them as neatly as he can and putting them in the pink envelope he brought. Pink, because why the hell not?

He’s written a letter too, though it’s a short one. And he’s brought some pressed flowers and glitter. He probably won’t use either of them, but he likes the sentiment of it.

He reads the letter once more before folding it too and putting it in with the tickets. Taking a deep breath, he finally seals the envelope and puts it in one of his books to keep it from wrinkling.

Then, he texts Louis.

It’s been raining steadily throughout the morning and even though the sun is slowly making her way out again, the grass is still wet when Harry arrives at the park. The earth underneath the tree where he and Louis usually sit is strewn with dirty leaves, so Harry makes his way over to one of the benches nearby.

The bench is wet too, of course, but Harry has planned this to the t, so he gets an old blanket out of his bag for them to sit on. It’s comfy, actually, because there is a patch of sunlight shining directly on him when he sits down on the bench. The blanket is old, but one of his favourites; one he used to take on picnics as a kid, and it’s soft underneath his thighs.

He’s nervous though. Rubbing his hands against the soft fabric he checks more than once if the envelope is still there in his bag. It is, of course. Harry checks again anyway.

When he sees Louis coming down the path, his heart does a little flip. How could it not, when the boy coming towards him looks stunning in a long coat (that he stole from Harry) and a dark blue button-down. He feels like an idiot, smiling so brightly when his boy is still a hundred meters away. He’s sure he must look like a lunatic to the old man passing by, but he can’t bring himself to care.

He stands up and greets his boyfriend with a hug and a kiss on his cheek, until Louis turns his head slightly and captures his lips. He feels like a love-sick teenager, and he feels so good.

“You’ve got a surprise for me.”

He nods and pulls Louis down onto the bench. He bends down and his shaking hands struggle with the zipper of his bag for a bit, before Louis leans down too and gently helps him with opening it. He plucks the envelope from the book and puts it into Louis’ hands.

“Just open it, and, um, please don’t laugh?”

“I would never laugh at you,” Louis frowns.

“Just open it.”

Casting his eyes down towards the envelope in his lap, Louis slowly strokes his fingers over the paper before looking up and giving Harry a soft smile. “I already love this.”

When he opens the envelope he thankfully pulls out the letter first. He searches for Harry’s eyes while he unfolds it, and he begins to read.

“ _Louis —_

 _“My darling, my dear. I am not one for keeping secrets, but these last few weeks there has been something that I haven’t told you yet. You know how much I’ve always loved writing and how much I’ve always dreamed about being published. When I met a boy called Louis, melancholy poems about wanting love turned into melancholy poems about wanting_ you _. You made me feel so loved that I finally had the courage to show poems to my friends. The rest is history — you know that I’ve been talking to a publisher, but what you don’t know is that two weeks ago my first volume of poetry was released. It’s been going well. I’ve sold more than sixty copies._ ”

Louis looks up, mouth gaping. “Really, Harry? That’s amazing!” He reaches forward and captures Harry’s shy smile in a kiss. He mumbles “I’m so goddamn proud of you” against Harry’s mouth, and tries to go in for another kiss when Harry stops him with a finger to his lips.

“Read the rest,” Harry mumbles shyly.

With a smile on his face, Louis continues.

“ _I didn’t really know what to do with the money. I could have bought you some flowers, probably, or some books, but I wanted to buy something for us together. I hope you like it as much as I like you. With love, your Harry._ ”

When Louis pulls out the tickets from the envelope his hand freezes. “You’ve bought us train tickets to go up to Doncaster.”

Feeling his heart beat in his throat, Harry struggles to explain. “Uh, yeah,” he says. “I thought we could go see your family together during the holidays? I called up your sister and she thought it was a nice idea,” he adds, awkwardly.

He’s starting to regret his idea when Louis is still staring at the tickets in his hand, turning them over again and again as if to make sure that they’re real. It’s only when he gently puts them down next to him and turns towards Harry that Harry realises that he’s crying.

“Jesus, baby—”

When he reaches forward Louis crashes into him, arms wrapping so tightly around him that he can feel the boy’s fingers trembling. “Thank you,” Louis whispers in his ear, “thank you, thank you, thank you.” Harry can feel his wet cheek against his neck, pulls the shaking body closer to him, until they’re breathing as one, shedding happy tears together.

“I can’t believe you did this for me,” Louis chokes out while he wipes his tears away. “Nobody’s ever realised how important this is for me. And you did this with _your own money_ ,” he cries out, “money that you earned from your beautiful poetry.”

Harry smiles and brushes his thumb over a tear on Louis’ cheek. “I’d do anything to make you happy,” he mumbles, and wraps his arms around Louis again, holds him and never want to let go.

“I love you so much.”

“I love you, too,” Harry says, and he’s never been as sure of anything as he is of this. He loves Louis with all of his heart, all of his body, all of his past and all of his future.

He’s not afraid anymore. Not afraid of the stares, of other people’s voices and opinions. Not afraid of what lies ahead in the future and not afraid to take a step forward into the light. Because he has Louis now, someone whose love makes Harry feel strong every day.

“I’ll love you until the end of time,” Harry whispers, and he knows it’s true.

“Really?”

“Yes, of course. Always.”


End file.
